


External Memory

by potentialfordisaster



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babysitter AU, Desert Island Fic, M/M, Tennis AU, cooking show au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentialfordisaster/pseuds/potentialfordisaster
Summary: A compilation of all the Hiddlesworth fanfictions that I was meaning to post some day.





	1. Cooking Show AU

"All set? Right: three, two, one. Go!" 

There is a hustle as all the contestants run to pick their ingredients. Tom goes straight to the pasta section, meeting Oliver and Elliot there as they hurriedly get themselves whatever they can get their hands on. For a moment, Tom's mind goes blank, not remembering what he was about to do. From the corner of his eye he can see the cameras rounding up around the room, focusing on the other contestants as they go, Parker and Shannon fighting over a portion of raw shrimps, Dawson, Alice and Katie raiding the vegetables section. The chefs are standing at the bottom of the room, watching the commotion with impartial stares. Tom sees Chris Hemsworth standing amidst them, surveying the shrimp fight with a small, amused smile, ducking slightly as Sophia Kingston, another chef, moves to whisper something to him. Chris Hemsworth chuckles, and before Tom's heart rate can speed any more, he separates a portion of pasta for himself and runs across the kitchen for the vegetables. 

"You have thirty seconds!" The host calls, and they all scramble to finish picking everything they need. 

Tom skids to the meat section, nervously going through all of them. He gathers everything he can think of, and goes to sort through the vegetables. Alice and Shannon are already at their counters, and the host calls for fifteen seconds. Tom stores all the vegetables he thinks he might need, and has less than ten seconds to pick the cheeses and spices before the bell rings and he returns to his counter. 

Margaret, the host, smiles, and elegantly turns to them as the camera focuses on her. "Now, I believe all of you had enough time to pick your ingredients?" She grins, eyes going through all of them. Tom sees Parker slowly shaking his head, looking disappointedly down at his own counter. 

Tom gulps, and examines his own ingredients. They look so poor in comparison to the others'. His choice of dish feels like a failure now, and a heavy lump falls from his heart to his stomach. He didn't want to be kicked out of the competition, his family was watching it, his friends were watching it and Tom really, _really_ wanted to win. Not to say he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of chef Hemsworth, whom Tom had always had a crush on. But how could he help it when he was _that_ beautiful and _that_ good? 

"Well," Margaret says with a tilt of her head, "hands on!" 

It was what everyone had been waiting for, and as soon as Margaret says the words, there is a palpable agitation as all the contestants move to start on their dishes. "You have fifty minutes to prepare your dishes and bring them to the chefs. _Fifty minutes only_." Margaret was saying, but all the contestants had their heads ducked. 

Tom fills a pot with water and sets it to boil, adding a pinch of salt. He pauses and lets his eyes roam over the ingredients, hastefully pulling out a frying pan and settling it over the stove. Gulping, he takes a quick look at the clock and rummages for a cutting board. He finds it, grabs a knife and begins cutting the meat. 

The cameras are zooming past them, approaching for better angles. There's a quietness over the kitchen, and this is the moment Tom found he likes the most: when everyone is working on their own and time is still abundant. 

Tom heats the frying pan, and throws the meat into it. His fingers are buzzing with excitement. He loves cooking, loves doing it more than anything else in the world. He isn't sure if the chefs are about to like his dish, doesn't even know if it'll come out all right. But he'll put everything he's got on it. 

He flicks his gaze to Chris, which he can't help doing since he had first started on this TV program. The thought that he is standing there, so close to Tom, is so unbelievable that Tom would believe him to be a mirage if he wasn't so remarkably handsome enough to actually _be_ Chris Hemsworth. 

The water begins to boil, and Tom dips the pasta into it. His meat is frying, almost there, just a little bit... Tom stirs the frying pan, eyes flicking automatically up to Chris again when a scalding drop of fat lands on his face, and he flinches. "Ouch," he brings a hand to it, the frying pan clattering back to place. 

Margaret makes a concerned face, and Tom can feel the camera lenses turning to him. They do love some drama. 

"All right there, Tom?" Margaret gives a few steps in his direction, and Tom nods repeatedly. 

"Yes, yes," he says, blushing when feeling the chefs' eyes on him. The drop had landed a little above his lip, and Tom can still feel the skin there stinging as he went on with his recipe. 

Kitchens were dangerous, he had to remember that. It was his luck the drop had reached a not so vital part of him, because it could've landed on his eye. He'd have to be more attentive with his stolen glances at Chris. 

Tom is halfway into his recipe, and thirty minutes have gone past. Tom is preparing for the next step when he freezes in place, cold dread suddenly filling his senses. The wine. He had forgotten the wine. 

His eyes roam the kitchen. Katie is roasting something that smells delicious. Oliver is making some sort of dough. Parker is stuffing his shrimps with a greenish filling that looks like humus. Alice is smashing potatoes, Shannon beside her looking very mad about something as she muttered and cursed under her breath. Dawson and Elliot are slicing vegetables. 

To Tom's despair, the chefs begin walking between the counters, eyeing their proceedings and asking what they're preparing. _Do not fret, do not fret,_ Tom thinks convulsively. 

"What are you doing, Tom?" Comes a voice from his left, and Tom startles and stammers when he sees Sophia Kingston. She was a very renowned chef, with short black hair and hazel eyes. Tom never really likes the way she looks at him. "Uhn, you see, erm," she raises her eyebrows. "Pasta," he manages to say, pointing at the boiling pot rather unhelpfully. "With some cheese, and- and sweet corn." 

She doesn't comment, only looking at his counter as though she wouldn't like to eat what was coming out of there. "I see," she says, and saunters away to inquire Parker. Tom doesn't even have the time to sigh in relief before another chef shows up: Chris. 

"Hey, there," he says, simply, with that wide smile that he gifts to everyone but Tom always finds so special. 

"H-Hi," Tom gulps, fisting his apron tightly and reaching to scratch at the place where the fat drop had landed. He can feel his whole face heating, his head becoming airy, and looks resolutely down at his own counter to avoid eye contact. 

Chris takes one look down at the boiling pasta. "Linguini?" He asks, and Tom nods silently. "Nice." 

Tom lays his hands on the counter, surveilling the bubbles popping to make it look like he was busy with something. Chris wasn't fooled though. "Well?" He asks, and Tom finally looks up at him. 

Chris has both eyebrows raised, a quiet, amicable smile on his face as he pointedly eyes Tom's hands. "Why did you stop?" 

Tom opens his mouth, shrugging one shoulder and letting out a quite croaky chuckle. "Erm, I- you see," he licks his lips, "I forgot the white wine." 

"Can't you go without it?" Chris asks, and that makes Tom pause. He can but he'd always done this recipe with wine and he wasn't sure if the result would be too good without it. There's a moment of silence, and Tom doesn't say anything, just looks at the countertop with a racing heart, feeling suddenly nauseous amidst the different smells and voices, under Chris's eyes. 

"Elliot, can I borrow this, please?" Tom hears Chris saying, and lifts his gaze to see as Elliot, the mousy-faced contestant occupying the counter in front of his, nods in assent as Chris takes the bottle of white wine from his counter. 

"There," Chris says, and sets it on Tom's counter. Chris gives him a flash-quick smile, and right when he's about to turn away, pipes over his shoulder: "You'd better hurry." 

Tom glimpses fearfully at the clock and sure enough, he has about fifteen minutes to finish. Hurrying, he pours the wine in the pan, and slices the vegetables. "Thank you," he says, but Chris is already at the other side of the room, nodding approvingly down at Katie's stove. 

"You have ten minutes," Margaret announces. 

In the end, Tom manages. He is only taking a last look at his dish's presentation when the bell rings, and he takes his hands off the countertop quickly. 

"Great," Margaret says, nodding to herself while inspecting their dishes. Tom's doesn't look too bad, though it's not at all like he'd envisioned it in his mind. Drying his hands on the rag, he swallows and looks down at his feet as Margaret asks who'd like to be the first to step forth to have his food judged. 

At the counter in front of his, Elliot sighs with some difficulty, takes his plate in hand and walks up to the chefs. They all greet him sympathetically, and Sturgis, a portly man with a perpetual pout, takes his first bite out of Elliot's food. Elliot had made a filet, and from Tom's point it looks delicious. Sturgis seems to think so too, nodding before making his judgment. Apparently, Elliot had used a combination of spices that Sturgis himself wouldn't have used. 

Tom frowns, he doesn't know what's wrong with that. He hates it when the chefs make this sort of judgment, because in his opinion it means nothing. Cooking is about innovation and creation, not about following rules and giving up trying because one person said they _wouldn't have done the same thing_. 

The second chef to try Elliot's food is Benito, the one whose Italian accent is so strong Tom most of the time doesn't understand what he is saying. He makes some criticism that has Tom cringing in Elliot's place. Benito is the most dramatic of all of them and the camera lenses always make a point of focusing on his face and the spit flying from his mouth. Tom deduces this episode's version is going to be aired with lots of panicky, tragic music, and lots of close-ups on Elliot's face too, poor man. 

Sophia comes next, and hums appreciatively at the food, making one or two questions before giving Elliot an overall approval. And then it's Chris's turn. He smiles at Elliot and makes a bit of a small talk. "I saw you struggling with the oven," he says, and Elliot looks disconcerted. Chris has a first bite, chewing extra carefully before pausing. From his position, Tom can see Elliot's back tensing when Chris prods at the filet. "This wasn't cooked very well, was it?" Chris asks, still examining the meat. 

"Uhn, I- I don't think so." Elliot admits. 

Chris cuts the filet and all the other chefs take a surprised look down at it. It looks like most part of the meat was still raw on the insides. There's a heavy silence, and all the contestants exchange fearful looks. Elliot was a nice man. Admittedly, Tom had never spoken much to him, but he was talented. It wouldn't be nice seeing him being kicked out, though if the decision were to ever be between him and Tom... 

"This is a common mistake," Chris says softly. Elliot looks like he's about to faint, and Chris looks apologetic. "When you're about to cook something and you don't have a lot of time, always make sure to pre-heat the oven, okay?" Elliot nods dutifully, and Chris steps back, his face turning serious. Tom prefers it when he's smiling. The serious face means Chris is about to politely say you can't cook to save your life. "Fifty minutes is a long time for a filet. I think your problem lies in time management rather than true talent, Elliot." 

Elliot swallows and is finally free to go wait for the others in the adjacent room. 

When Margaret asks who'd like to go next, Tom stands firmly in place. Katie goes, and receives lots of compliments from the chefs, even a congratulatory pat on the back from Chris that makes her look like she's about to swoon. Tom feels a bit jealous and makes up his mind to go next as his pasta is beginning to cool. All the other contestants seem to have done extraordinary dishes, so Tom's pasta feels rather flat. He should've thought about a better dish. 

"Next?" 

Tom gathers his courage and steps forward. Margaret smiles, and cedes the space so he can bring his dish up to the table. Sturgis is the first to try it. He looks unhopefully down at it, chewing leisurely. Tom feels a hot hand blazing inside his chest, apprehensively studying his face. Finally the verdict comes. "It's good," Sturgis mumbles with a controversial grin. "But it's very bland. Hardly any spice, too sweet." 

Tom nods, trying his hardest to take it as a compliment when he knows there was none. Thankfully Sturgis seems to spare him the details of how he'd have done differently, so Sophia steps up to try it. She takes her sweet time, cool eyes inspecting his dish as she chews. "I agree with Sturgis," she says, "The dish is good but not very provoking. It's like cooking dinner when you get home after work, it's not delicious, it's just food." 

Tom feels taken aback. Of course no one wanted to receive criticism as long as they were constructive. At least that's the way Tom liked to view it. But there was nothing he could work with here. She said his cooking was simple, plain _food_. "Oh," Tom croaks. 

"It's not that there is something missing," she adds. "It's just not a very good choice of dish at this stage of the competition. Anyone can cook pasta, Tom. What can you do about it to make it different is what we're worried about." 

Right. Tom has no high hopes as he watches Benito chew on his pasta, but he surprisingly gets what he thinks is a good review. From what he could gather Benito found it to be sweet but the consistency of the pasta was very good and the combination of flavors was ' _in_ harmony' or ' _dis_ harmony', Tom hadn't gotten that part very well. Lastly, Chris comes over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left Alone in an Island kind of AU. Don't remember exactly where I was headed with this, but I think I took some inspiration from The Road to Eldorado. Chris finds himself alone in a desert island and meets a strange tribe of natives that seems to have previewed his arrival centuries ago. Now, they think he's a god. And they want him to marry their prince (Tom). Chris isn't saying no.

Chris isn't surprised to find himself alone when he wakes up. With a groan, he rolls on his side to protect his eyes from the sun. His head feels like it weighs a ton, and when he leans his weight on his elbow, the pain descends to an insistent throb behind his eyeballs. 

There's sand underneath him, sticking to his skin. "What the fuck," he mutters, voice hoarse. He blinks tentatively, coming to a sitting position as he takes a look around. It's an island, it seems, the vast sea stretching in front of him, lazy waves barely reaching his tip toes. Chris sighs, lets his head fall back and roars to the sky above, birds flying off in fear. 

When he had been sentenced to spend the rest of his days in England's far-off colony, Chris had been happy. Australia had always sounded like a brand new world to him, people mentioned beaches, light-blue water and white, thin sand. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his side, and on the way there, their ship had cracked. It wasn't the saddest day to England, that could go without a few hundred prisoners, but it was certainly the worst day of Chris' life, waking up to cold, salty water filling his poor excuse of a cabin as men shouted all around. 

He hadn't the faintest idea on how he had managed to escape alive, his vision foggy as he had rolled out of his bunk, still feeling the tangy taste of liquor heavy on his tongue. He was positively sure all the other men were dead, the absence of other bodies and this empty, dull feeling in his chest were enough to confirm it. He was alone. In a distant, unknown island. 

"Fuck," he mutters, feeling a lump in his throat that means he wants to cry. He drags himself up from the position the tide had thrown him on, standing to inspect the island. 

There are small, black pebbles lining the shore, the sand prickly with it. The island hugs the sea in a bay shaped like a horseshoe, sinuous curves of green mountains and rock cliffs, everything sprouting with the deep-green of untouched forests. There are no palm trees, the sea is grey instead of light-blue, nothing seems like the paradisiacal image Chris had carved on his mind of what a desert island should look like. What the hell was he going to do here? 

He yells at the sky again, a fury growing inside his chest. If god existed, he wanted to personally punch him in the face. Above him, the sky seems to roar back, dark-grey clouds gathering with a thrum. 

The only thing that can possibly make his life worse is rain. 

So of course the rain comes. 

\- 

Nothing. There's nothing useful in this island. 

"A fucking ghost island," Chris snarls, his soaked boots becoming murky as he enters the deep forest farther and farther. He spots a snake, though, all by itself coiled next to a tree, a great big bird Chris had never seen before, and a couple of animals that looks like rats, only thrice bigger. 

None of the animals seem surprised to see him, and this makes Chris frown. 

When he comes to a small clearing and takes one look at what is definitely an attempt of an animal trap, Chris knows he's not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gym AU.

There are two worlds Chris orbits around: the world outside the gym, and the other, inside it. This is the first theory Chris has formulated so far and he's strangely proud of it.   
He never imagined he'd grow this attached to physical exertion on top of the hours he spent at the office, which constituted another, mental kind of exertion Chris despised. To be fair he used to think it a little cheesy: a bunch of people that knew nothing about each other paying to sweat and grunt in the same cubicle. But Chris had been wrong before, and as it was, he had been wrong then. 

In a few weeks, the gym grew to be a sort of temple for him, a time he took for himself, a place he used to let his mind wander, where he focused on his movements, on the flow of energy that made him get up faster every day and spare that last gulpful of coffee from the awful office machine. Not to mention his body looked definitely better and he began attracting more and more attention on the streets. 

Chris found something new everyday at the gyn. People like him, single and stressed from work, others, married and stressed from the children, the constant beefy men that were probably taking it too far and the ones that flirted with the instructors most of the time instead of getting anything done. 

He met new people as well, like Cassy, a girl who often hit the treadmill beside his. She was twenty-eight and overweight, and completely hilarious. Her doctor had advised her to do frequent exercises and the amount of swear words she could say when mentioning him was abysmal. Then there was also Freddie, a man that came down from his class at least twice a week for the single purpose of flirting with Chris. He did yoga on the second floor – Chris didn't know the gym also offered yoga. This was how Freddie reacted when knowing about Chris' ignorance of the fact: with a gasp, laying his hand on Chris' shoulder despite the bar-bell Chris was presently lifting.

"You have to be kidding! You absolutely _have_ to go. It's changed my life and given me a great ass! I'll talk to my teacher, you can come for a class." 

Chris grinned, settling the bar-bell down with some strain. He could feel sweat running down his temples, the air conditioning doing nothing to alleviate his body heat. "I'll think about it," Chris had nothing against yoga but he figured he'd look like a complete meathead in his shorts and sneakers and tank tops that were showing too much of his biceps next to people like Freddie, slim and fit who dressed in yoga pants and baggy shirts with words in Sanskrit and Hindi goddesses on it. 

Freddie watched him with a suspicious grin because Chris' tone probably showed he wasn't very interested. "Great. You can come in next Thursday then, I'll be waiting for you. No excuses!" He held a finger up to Chris' face playfully. "See you there, big boy," he went away after letting his hand slide down Chris' arm. 

Chris blushed, watching Freddie's retreating form on the mirror's reflection. He caught the eye of the guy next to him, lifting half the weight Chris had been. The guy smirked, probably having heard the entire exchange. 

"Well," the man sighed, "he _does_ have a great ass." 

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't know, man. Never been much into yoga," he added more weight to his bar-bell, testing his grip on it. 

The guy shrugged. "Me neither. But there are all sorts of things on the second floor. Ballet, dancing, indoors pool. My sister does dancing up there too, tried it once," he was popping a vein, and Chris didn't know how he could still be talking, "it was nice." 

Biting his bottom lip, Chris raised the bar-bell to the top of his head, securing the position for a while. "Do you think I should try it then?" 

The guy groaned, letting his bar-bell fall with a thud back on its place. "As I said, _great ass_." 

\- 

Freddie's ass wasn't enough to make up for it. Yoga was _hard_ , and painful. Chris couldn't touch his toes with his fingers without bending his knees and he felt like a complete failure next to the other students, flexible and strong. The teacher came over all the time to check on him, trying to be encouraging but at the same time chastising Chris for apparently thinking he'd have it easy because he lifted. 

In the end Freddie gave him a sympathetic grimace. "Maybe next class you'll do better? We'll have a different teacher then." 

Chris sighed, zipping up his sports bag. "Maybe." 

"Hey, you tried," Freddie tried to cheer him up with a smile, tapping Chris with his water bottle. "By the way, you can have my number so, you know," he blushed, "I could tell you about next class or something." 

\- 

The second floor was huge and Chris chose to use the shower stalls in there. It was way less inhabited than the first floor and as Chris put on a clean change of clothes he could hear music. 

There wasn't much to do other than head home once he left the bathroom. He had come in early for yoga and though there was much time left before he had to go Chris decided he couldn't put in more hours lifting without fainting or having a heart attack. So he grabbed his phone and checked for any updates on his email while making his way to the stairs. 

The guy from the first floor had been right. The gym offered several classes on the second floor. Chris passed a ballet class on the way, felt the smell of chlorine from the swimming pool where middle-aged people were stretching in. He paused, watched them for a while and then went on his way. 

The music became unmistakeable as Chris approached the dance class, held in a wide room surrounded by glass walls. It was, ironically, Bee Gees' _You should be dancing_. People of all ages danced about, a young, enthusiastic teacher clapping her hands and spurring them on. Chris felt second-hand embarrassment. He knew he had two left feet so he could never imagine what it would be like dancing among other people while so exposed. But the dancers didn't seem to mind in the slightest. On the contrary, they looked like they were having the time of their lives. The choreography looked intense, nothing inhuman, but something that could break a sweat easily. 

Chris wouldn't stand there and watch but his eye had been caught by a dancer. He was lean, with short, curly blond hair. Admittedly, maybe Chris wouldn't have looked twice if he'd crossed the guy on the street, but the thing was he was _dancing_ and something about him was hypnotizing. He had a huge smile on his face, twirling on his feet and shaking his hips. He wasn't the best dancer of the bunch but he managed to make it seem simple, natural, as if someone like Chris could go in there and dance as well. 

Chris leaned against the wall, glancing down at his phone while snooping more looks at the man. He was snapping his fingers along with the music, staring down at his feet as he moved. A girl dancing beside him said something to him, and he hung his head and laughed. When the music came to an end everybody clapped, laughing and cleansing their sweat as best as they could. 

Another music started, the first notes painfully familiar to Chris. His eyes found the mesmerizing man once again, and Chris couldn't help raking his eyes over his form as he began some easy steps. He was definitely thin, with a dark t-shirt hanging on his shoulders, his collarbone visible with the way it clung to his chest in sweaty patches. He wore light pants, the kind that wouldn't hinder his movements much. 

Then Chris recognized the music: _Let's Groove_ by Eart, Wind  & Fire. Chris smiled. He had been obsessed with Earth, Wind & Fire when he was younger. He always felt like moving, like doing something when he listened to it. And seeing these dancers, particularly the blond one dancing to it now made him want to be there with them. Made him want to analyse every step and every move of hips and learn how he could do that. 

The man made a sinful movement with his hips, lowering them to the beat as he murmured the lyrics as to how he should lose himself, running his hands over his upper body and letting them fall beside him before laughing sheepishly to his friend, a high blush on his cheeks. 

He spinned his hips again and then something happened – something Chris didn't want to. He looked up and caught the way Chris was looking at him. His smile slid off, and Chris instantly tensed, clearing his throat though the man couldn't hear it, fumbling with his phone to make it look like he was busy though there wasn't a reason why a guy like him would be checking his phone strategically outside the dance room other than ogling someone in there. 

The man visibly faltered on his dance moves, for a moment stopping altogether as he looked quickly away, pushing a curl away from his forehead and gulping. His friend beside him seemed to notice, tapping his forearm and mouthing 'what's wrong'. Chris saw how he shook his head, putting on a smile before trying to continue where he left off. He glanced warily at Chris. 

Guiltily, Chris shoved his phone down his pocket and made for the stairs, head lowered. It hadn't been his intention to make the man uncomfortable. 

 

\- 

Freddie texted him on Thursday at work, asking if Chris was up for yoga class again. Chris sent back a 'not sure :/' and thankfully he left it at it. The day before Chris could barely concentrate when at the gym, kept looking over his shoulder at the stairs that led to the second floor with some hope that he'd get to see the man from the dance class, whom now he fondly called Dance Blondie mentally. He didn't know his schedule though, and it had been with some disguised interest that he'd flirted with the girl at the reception desk to inquire about the dance classes held at the second floor. 

"Yes, it's some kind of old-fashioned dancing," Louise, the redhead receptionist, had told him, raising a meticulously done eyebrow, "music from the eighties and stuff," she had detached the poster with the classes' program from the panel above her desk. "We offer three to four different classes a week. Only one in the morning and the other three at night. There's Monday, Wednesday and Friday at seven, and Tuesdays and Thursdays at eight," she had said, underlining the info with a pink pen. 

Chris analysed the paper for a minute. He had seen Dance Blondie last Tuesday, and there was only one class on Tuesdays held by a female teacher. Chris engraved the information table for it in his mind as fast as he could, ignoring the way Louise had been supporting her cleavage on the desk. 

"Are you interested?" She had asked. 

Chris handed the poster back. "No, it's for a friend. Thank you." 

She giggled, "okay. Didn't want to say it, but it doesn't look like your scene anyway." 

And now Chris was running on the treadmill, glancing at the clock every few minutes. He was building up the courage to do something, he just wasn't sure what yet. Probably something embarrassing. 

When it was almost nine o'clock Chris jumped off the treadmill. A middle-aged man quickly took his place, the gym fairly crowded at this time. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his arm, Chris took his gear upstairs with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship. Tom's grandmother comes to visit. And Chris hates her.

"Granny!" 

Chris stood awkwardly to the side, a small, false smile in place while Tom hugged the tiny figure that was his grandmother, who had just appeared on their doorstep and knocked on their door to spend the week with them. Oh glory. 

It shouldn't be much of a problem, Chris actually liked elder people; they were nice, filled with a deep knowledge of the world, their skin wrinkled and their smiles kind. But Tom's grandmother was another story. 

Chris had a feeling the woman didn't like him much, and when her dislike began to manifest itself in the form of actions that left him internally fuming, there had been little else to do other than to reciprocate the feeling. On their first meeting, when Tom had dragged him to his family's lunch and introduced his boyfriend, the elder woman's response had been an analyzing stare, her eyes narrowing, eyelid twitching when her gaze fell to his hair, which he liked to keep at shoulder-length, and to his tattoo, a long tribal on his calf that he was very proud of. 

"Don't worry," Tom had whispered, when they were already at the table, wearing that open and gentle smile that Chris was crazy about. "She's very quiet, but she's also the most powerful woman in my life." And settling a quick peck on his cheek, added "It would mean the world to me if you two got along." 

And how it would... Throughout their next meetings, Tom's grandmother had recited a nice stash of nasty remarks that Chris assumed she had a vile sort of pleasure to elaborate, "Isn't your boyfriend going to cut his hair, Tom?", "Something smells is here, doesn't it, sweetheart?", and when she had given him that awful-looking sweater for Christmas, "His clothes are always so transparent." was her justification, putting that faux-innocent smile on, Tom's dubious expression instantly dissipating to an adorable smile, sending Chris a fond look before replying, "He loves it, granny. Thank you." The sweater lay at the deepest bottom of his drawer and Chris always gritted his teeth whenever he got a peek of it amidst his clothes. He wore mostly cargo shorts and well, Chris liked his t-shirts, and if they were a little tight it was because his muscles were big, and not because they were transparent, their material was flimsy. 

When she had called last week, keeping Tom busy and away from Chris' kisses on his neck for two hours, he had known she was up to something, but it wasn't until Tom had come back to bed, folding his long legs underneath himself, lips downturned, that Chris really had begun to fear her machinations. "Darling..." he had mumbled, making those eyes. And Chris was as good as sold. 

Paying her a quick smile and a nod, Chris politely moved to take her bags inside, enormous trunks that probably held a dead body - or bodies - for how heavy they were. Still, he made good use of his musculature, dragging her stuff inside and depositing it in the living room, where she now stood next to Tom, eyeing the place in mild-disapproval. 

She smelled heavily of old-bottled bromeliad perfume, shoulders enveloped in a white crochet shawl, her white hair with streaks of gray tied in a bun kept secure by a fake rose clip. The light green dress she wore was long, meticulously ironed and wafting a pungent smell of deodorant; her feet tucked inside white stockings and old-fashioned shoes. She was the stereotypical image of a grandmother, shoulders slightly drawn forward by old age, barely reaching Chris' chest. 

"Did you make a safe trip, granny?" Tom asked, attentive to her every move and need, smoothing the sofa seats for her. 

"Sure, sweetheart, of course." She replied, sitting and looking around. "Ah, my taxi's outside waiting-" She trailed off, grabbing her small purse, giving Chris a sly sideways glance before gasping. "Oh, no." 

Tom turned preoccupied eyes to her. "What is it, granny?" 

"I left my money on my coffee table." She sighed, a hand on her cheek. 

Chris gaped, watching in mounting fear as Tom cooed. "It's nothing, granny, don't worry. Chris!" He called, turning to his boyfriend. "No, darling-" His grandmother tried, voice soft, hands reaching for Tom. "It's no problem, really." Tom assured, "Chris, could you, please?" He asked, and damn if that face wouldn't be the death of him. 

Sighing, Chris' lips stretched in a smile, teeth gritted. "Sure." 

He left before he could become more unnerved by Tom's grandmother victorious expression. This week was going to be hell. 

The taxi driver stood in front of their house, brows furrowed and head tilted to the side as he blew away the smoke of his burning cigarette. He fixed Chris with a firm stare, "That'll be a hundred, lad." he said, armpits wet where he sweat under his dress shirt. Chris grunted in response, fishing out his fake-leather wallet and pulling out some crisp bills, reluctant to let them go even as the driver reached for it, counting the notes and stepping on his cigarette butt to light it out. "That your grandma?" The man asked, cocking his head to indicate their house. 

Chris sighed, crossing his arms. "Thank god no. My boyfriend's." 

The driver cringed, making a face. "Even worse." He pocket Chris' hard-earned money and turned, shouting over his shoulder. "Good luck, man, woman's a pain in the ass." 

Groaning, Chris went back inside, where Tom was setting the table for the afternoon tea, talking quietly to his grandmother. He met Chris on his way to the kitchen to get the boiling water and some jam, smiling thankfully up at him and giving him a quick peck on the lips. "Thank you." he whispered against his lips, Chris almost melting and ducking his head down after more kisses. Tom chuckled, palming the back of his neck to grant him his wish when his grandmother called from the living room. 

Hissing lowly, Chris let him go, Tom blowing him a kiss as got his things and went back to his grandmother. Scratching the back of his head, Chris followed him, taking the seat across his grandmother and keeping his gaze low to avoid her. 

Tom quickly left to get the bread, leaving them by themselves in the same room. A receipt for tragedy. 

"Aren't you going to help him?" She asked, the line of her lips sour. Chris looked up, not recognizing the harsher tone of her voice, so different from when she spoke to Tom. 

He blinked in confusion, "What?" but before she could unclip her lips to reply, Tom returned, smiling cheerfully as he set the recently-made bread down between them. 

"There we go!" he said, taking off the yellow oven mitts Chris had gotten him. 

"Oh, it smells amazing, darling!" his grandmother complimented, Chris hiding his smile. "I always told your mother that you'd make a great cook." 

Tom took a seat beside his boyfriend, licking his lips and intervening shyly, "Actually, granny," he said, sparing Chris a quick, prideful look. "Chris was the one who cooked it. He's stronger than I am and kneads the dough just perfectly." Tom finished, winking his way. 

Swelling inside, Chris hummed, leaning to peck Tom's lips just to see his grandmother's contraried expression. She made a surprised "Oh," and gave Chris a tight-lipped smile before sipping her tea. 

Chris grinned. Boyfriend 1 x 1 Grandmother. 

He listened passively as Tom engaged her in a conversation, grabbing a bread and crunching it in the middle, biting a large chunk out of it and munching loudly just because he knew it was bad manners and that Tom's grandmother despised it. Tom gave him a funny look but Chris considered himself victorious, and when the old woman glared his way, he smiled. 

It was a silent war. 

* 

"I'm not saying I don't like her," Chris said, sprawled on their bed, leaning against the headboard and scratching the back of his neck as he waited for Tom to come back from the bathroom. "But she's- She's odd, and did you see those porcelain figures she brought with her? She was putting them all over our furniture. It's creepy, all those angels and figures, they must weigh a ton." He really didn't like complaining, even more so because he respected Tom. His family was nice enough and even though his grandmother was an outlier, she was still blood from his blood. And Tom more than respected Chris' family, he didn't even say anything that time when Liam had made a cruel joke about his curled hair while thinking he was still in the kitchen helping their mother. 

Tom appeared through the open door of their bathroom, brushing his teeth, mouth full of mint-flavored foam. He leveled Chris with a look and went back to spit on the sink. 

"It's not- Baby, she's nice, but she brought almost her whole house along." he finished, spreading the sheets out on their bed. 

Tom switched the bathroom's light off with a click, walking towards his side of the bed. He was wearing those tiny blue cotton shorts with his university shirt, and Chris wanted nothing more than to cuddle with him on their bed. He still wasn't over how adorable his boyfriend was. 

"Chris," Tom said, lying on his belly, the sheets rustling as they settled underneath it, Tom finishing by propping his chin on Chris' shoulder. "She's only staying for a week." 

Chris stared up at the ceiling, running a lazy finger up and down Tom's spine over his shirt. "I know, baby." His conspirational ideas sounded so lame and asshole-like of his part now. Perhaps she really did miss Tom and was just looking for company. 

"She lives by herself. It gets lonely, you know that." Tom murmured, settling more comfortably on his shoulder. "You used to live by yourself too before we met, remember?" 

Sighing, Chris closed his eyes. "The dark days of my life." 

Tom laughed quietly, "Living by yourself?" 

Chris chuckled, chest rumbling beneath Tom's palm. He set a gentle kiss atop his boyfriend' curls and switched the lamplight off. "Living without you." 

* 

Agnes liked to crochet a lot, fingers moving deftly over her needles and threads. She also liked to wake up early, or maybe she was just accustomed to, Chris thought, finding Tom's grandmother already up with her crochet in hand by the time he slid out of bed and went downstairs to start on breakfast. 

"Morning." he greeted, mind still fogged with sleep. 

Her response was a tilt of her head and a nod, not taking her eyes away from her work. Ignoring it, Chris prepared himself a nice cup of coffee, retrieving the newspaper and eyeing the sports session after some news on the surf championship that was being held back home in Australia. News were sparse, but he separated the pages concerning the last tennis match somewhere around the globe for Tom, and went around to prepare his tea, taking the pages and the steaming cup with him upstairs. 

Tom had shucked off most of the sheets during the night, presenting Chris with a nice view of his pale leg, the bottom of his shorts barely covering his arse. Chris paused to take it him before throwing the newspaper pages on the mattress and sliding a hand underneath it to cup a cheek, Tom grinning and moving slowly. 

"Hm, tea in bed, this must be my lucky day." He joked, accepting the cup, eyes narrowed with sleepiness. 

Chris huffed. "Your lucky day was when you met me." he kissed the tip of his nose, being brought back by a hand around his neck, Tom pulling him down and humming. 

"Well," Tom lifted an eyebrow. "Come back early today and you might get lucky." 

"Is that a promise?" Chris nipped his jaw, loins heating with interest. He didn't want to push but it had been almost a week since they had last had a nice tumble in the sheets. 

Tom's answer was a quiet laugh accompanied by mirthful eyes, swatting Chris' ass when he stood to go to the bathroom. 

He took a quick shower, going back to their bedroom to find Tom already gone. He dressed, got his car keys and was quietly walking down the stairs when Tom made his way hurriedly to him, pausing against the staircase, eyes wide. 

"Tom! What happened?" He ran down the last steps, immediately thinking the worst. 

"Darling," Tom murmured, biting his lip and wringing his hands. "I know you're going to work and I hate to ask but granny is in need of her medicine." he finished, Chris drawing out a relieved breath before the words got to him. 

"Her medicine?" he asked, perhaps a little too loudly because Tom looked a little alarmed before nodding. 

"Yes, she only told me now because she was embarrassed to ask for it before, you see?" Tom explained, and he must've interpreted Chris' jaw clenching as a bad sign because he inched closer. "Please, darling, it'll be quick." 

It was not as if he would get into too much problem for arriving a little later than usual, he thought, as Tom's hands reached out to rest on his chest, his fingers moving... "Right," he sighed, eyes fluttering as Tom made that cooing sound on the back of his throat. "I can- I can get it." 

"Great!" he smiled, planting a loud smooch on his lips. "Thank you, darling, I'll make up for it, I swear." he promised, giving Chris the name of the medicine before turning on his heels to attend to his grandmother, who was already calling from the kitchen. 

~*~ 

Chris absolutely hated drugstores. He wondered why so many old people had decided to shop for medicines today, at the same time as him, who was already growing late for work. 

An old couple had stopped him on his way, asking if he could read the nutritional table of a vitamin supplement. "It's phytona- phytomedi-" he sighed. Why were those names so long and weird? The old woman glanced up at him above the rim of her glasses, and Chris tried again. "Phytomenadione." 

"Oh," she nodded, her husband sucking on a cinnamon candy noisily beside her. Chris smiled, turning to go when she called, "Do you know if that's any good for my bones?" 

After a patient explanation that he had no idea, the old couple finally let him go, and Chris hurried to get Agnes' medicine. He huffed. He didn't even know if she really needed or really took a "medicine". He wouldn't be surprised if she had only made that up to bother him. 

He couldn't find it anywhere, and upon seeing an attendant, asked her after the medicine. The girl nodded boredly, coming back with a small box of... chewing gums. "Are these chewing gums?" Chris asked, appalled. The attendant looked at him as if he was dumb, "Yeah." 

"But..." Chris sighed, deep down realizing he had already been hooked into what had to be one of Agnes' pranks. "But there must've been some mistake-" 

"No mistake, sir. See, that's the name you asked for, isn't it?" She was right, of course, turning the label so Chris could read it. 

It dawned on him what was truly happening. That woman had made him late for his job just for a pack of gums! Face stretching in a forceful smile, Chris thanked the attendant and went to wait in line for the cashier. He would tell Tom, of course. He'd snitch on her without a second thought. She had made it sound so important, no doubt using that low voice to soften her grandson's heart which was already soft by nature. 

To make it worse the gums weren't cheap, and Chris had to shove his hands in his back pockets furiously to count a handful of coins to fill in the expense, the cashier watching him with slow eyes. With the drugstore's bag in hand, Chris internally fumed on his way to work. 

~*~ 

Chris worked as an "assistant cook" in an Indian restaurant, which was to say that he spent most of days fixing spicy food.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly one of the ongoing fics I spent most of my time in. Chris is a MMA fighter and Tom is a young model.

“Tom, turn to the right, to the right.” 

Tom did, inching his face to the side and putting on an enigmatic look. The photographer, some middle-aged man most celebrities seemed to favor, nodded along with a string of “Perfect, perfect.” 

Tom tried not to squint as an assistant adjusted the lights, licking his lips and leaning back on the stage sofa to better present his bare stomach to the camera, kneeling on the soft velvet surface. 

“Oh, marvelous! Just a few more, we're almost done.” The photographer shouted, snapping some more pictures before drawing back from the camera to quickly switch the lens. 

Tom ruffled his curls in concentration, thinking about how to pose next. He was four years into the business and had already acquired some experience. He had started off early, to earn some easy money when he was still in highschool and a friend of his decided he wanted to be a professional photographer. What was supposed to be a short photoshoot turned into something bigger when his friend used the photos on his portfolio to present on some exhibition or something of the sort, Tom wasn't sure. The thing is Ben had called him desperately after that, saying some big-named agency wanted to meet him. 

Tom was signing a contract not two weeks later, feeling infinitely small under the greater dimensions the world unfolded into. His parents weren't very supportive of it at first, his father being the most sincere about his opinion, which wasn't new; his mother in the background with quiet murmurs and his sisters being more excited than was probably necessary, even more so when Tom brought them free make-up and clothes from some sponsors. Of course his parents ended up agreeing upon seeing the promise of his paychecks, the amount of digits having them gaping in astonishment. Anyway, he was now legal and didn't need their signature on his contracts anymore. 

Although he was very complimented for his natural talent for modeling, Tom was sure his angel-faced, young boy looks were what really attracted attention. Of course his fans consisted mostly of old men with possible pedophilic inclinations, but at that Tom could only shrug. Besides, the more famous he became, the better, for he knew the fame would open him more doors for his dreamed acting career, which would be much more difficult to achieve starting from the zero and having no important acquaintances. 

It wasn't cheating, it was just shortcutting. 

“Tom?” The photographer called when he was done with his camera's configurations, and Tom nodded. 

He turned around, his backside facing the camera, knees apart. He adjusted the hem of his baby blue underwear to expose its brand, the only piece of clothing that protected him from full nudity. Tom spread his hands over the sofa's back, turning his face in the last minute so the camera could capture his innocent, almost surprised look, mouth agape and eyes owlish. 

“Excellent, excellent!” The photographer exclaimed, kneeling and changing angles, taking different photographs under quick succession, the snaps and flashes almost overlapping. “Well done, Tom. Well done.” He complimented when they finished, lowering his camera, catching Tom's gaze and winking. 

Tom smiled tightly in return. The fashion world was full of lewd contacts. Tom was proud to say he never had to sleep with anyone to get where he was. He didn't understand why these guys insisted on flirting with him, though. 

Tom headed to the dressing room and changed clothes quickly. It was one thing to stand half-nude and make provocative poses for the sake of photographing, another one was to stand with the entire staff's burning eyes on his flesh. 

He put on a pair of jeans and his long-sleeved, black turtleneck, which he rolled back at his elbows. He hummed a tune under his breath while he put on his shoes, a knock coming from the door before a voice told him the photographer wanted to see him to show the pictures. 

Tom exited the room to find the man seated before a computer, a cable connecting his camera to the device. He turned on his swivel chair and caught sight of him. 

“Tom, come here, come here.” He called, beckoning Tom over with one hand and holding a pen to his mouth with the other. 

Tom went to stand beside him, supporting himself on his palms over the table to look at the computer monitor. “These are great.” The photographer said, showing him the photos with every click on the keyboard. 

And it was true, they were great. The man showed him more photos while the staff worked around them, talking and murmuring and laughing under the permanent smell of expensive perfume and mint gums to disguise tobacco. 

“Here,” the photographer suddenly burst, stopping at the last row of Tom's photos. The man beated the bitten point of his pen on the monitor excitedly, “This one is making cover.” He said enthusiastically, “Definitely.” 

Tom laughed, enchanted. His photo was great, possibly one of his bests so far. The frame of the photograph caught his whole body, beginning on the inside of his feet to follow the pale back of his long legs and thighs. The underwear fit him snugly, hugging his buttocks, which were round and symmetric, the cloth's soft blue color matching his eyes. The freckles that barely dusted his shoulders and back were visible, the high resolution of the camera catching the tiniest details. 

The photographer kept bragging about how he made a wonderful choice by changing his lens before the photo, but Tom barely heard, still examining the photograph. The most alluring part of it, besides his buttocks, was his face, which held a mix of surprise and innocence, as if Tom was lost and someone had called him, turning to look over his shoulder to find the source. 

His agent stepped up beside them to take a look too, raising his eyebrows and patting Tom on the shoulder. “Oh, terrific, Tom! You exceeded yourself.” Tom beamed. 

Luke and the photographer stayed to arrange some more details, Tom finding himself a seat, bored with their technical talk while a young assistant came to offer him coffee, which he accepted gratefully, sipping the hot beverage quietly. 

After what felt like one hour, the photographer sighed and extended his arms over a yawn. He turned the monitor so Tom could see his workings and gasp. 

He had on the draft of the magazine's next edition, Tom's photo spread over the cover, contrasting with the elegant font of the important highlights and the title, his name stamped on bigger sized letters underneath it to divulge his interview with the magazine. 

“What do you say?” The photographer asked, biting the end of his pen again and watching him with half-lidded eyes. 

“It's perfect.” Tom gasped, breathy, eyes still glued on the monitor. 

~*~ 

“No! It's awful!” 

Chris shouted, dodging some people standing on his way on the corridor to the stadium. His publicist, Phil, a pale looking man who only eyed Chris' money enviously and had a terrible, false laughter, followed after him. 

Phil gave another one of his short and too loud laughters, probably trying to sound as if Chris was joking, a joke only shared by their bond of camaraderie. 

“Chris, don't say that!” He said on a friendly tone. “It's just an event.” Chris eyed him coldly over his shoulder, standing before the entrance to the ring and waiting for his announcement. He cracked his knuckles and strapped his gloves tighter, jumping to warm up and craning his neck. Some ring girls in tight bikinis who stood at the entrance eyed him wantonly, but now Chris only had eyes for the ring, the darting lights and the loud crowd. 

Fighting was his life. Not because he liked punching other people, but because the exercise fueled and at the same time calmed something inside him. Chris had always had a difficult genius, anger problems, and when a young teenager, he discovered the fight was a good way to release his demons. 

He liked to hold his opponents, to look for gaps on their stances, to force his muscles over them, strength against strength until one gave out. He liked how powerful it made him feel, how his muscles strained and hardened. He didn't, of course, like the wounds that permeated his body after, but it just made him feel all the more unstoppable. 

“Chris,” his publicist called louder, trying to gain his attention by shouting over the crowd's roar. “It'll be nice, I promise. Lots of drinks, lots of sponsors, lots of girls.” 

Chris snarled, straightening his back as the ring man welcomed the audience and began to list his opponent's awards and victories. “Shut up, Phil.” 

Phil gave a nervous laugh, turning and winking at the ring girls while he adjusted the lapels of his suit. He tried to say something else but Chris wouldn't hear it over the crowd whistling and screaming when his opponent entered the ring. 

“And on the other side,” the announcer said on his microphone, “the star of the championship, pounds and pounds of Australian muscles,” Chris shook his head and chuckled, the crowd roaring for him, “the athlete of the year, the three times winner of the heavyweight UFC, it's him:” Chris stepped forward, the highlights following him. “Chris Hemsworth!” 

Chris raised his hands and stepped into the ring, the crowd clapping and screaming and standing and howling for him. He smirked, teeth showing. He loved this part of his career. 

The judge, a bald, mustached man, stood between him and his opponent, a newcomer who looked like an Indian and eyed him crossly. Chris bore his eyes onto his and prepared his balance. 

~*~ 

The fight was over in two rounds, Chris beaming and shouting at the festive crowd over his opponent's knocked out body. The guy was good but lacked experience, giving his all in the beginning and losing breath for the rest of the fight. He put up a good fight, though, and Chris was glad. He didn't like an easy victory, he liked challenges. 

His setting room was filled with people he didn't know but always seemed to be around him. Press and a bunch of retarded flatterers, Phil included on the latter. 

Chris took his place on the leather couch, gasping and groaning when a woman came to attend to his wounds, which were few but always stung. He grabbed the water bottle his coach threw his way, gulping it down and wincing on a particular gash on his shoulder. 

“Nice fight up there, man.” Phil patted his sweaty, uninjured shoulder, sitting across him, at the edge of a glass table. 

Chris groaned in response, ridding his forehead of any more sweat with the back of his hand. The woman finished her job and went away with her things after applying some sort of ointment over his injury. 

Phil was looking at him with that expression that was waiting until he was completely focused on his person to try and convince Chris of something of his interest. 

Chris snorted before saying. “If this is about that stupid party again then don't even mind.” And leaned his back as far as he could on the leather couch. 

Phil chuckled, looking down and shaking his head. “Oh, Chris. Look, it's a famous brand, it'd be a nice opportunity to renew the contract, get in touch with everyone.” He grinned. 

Chris sighed in frustration. “Phil, I hate that modeling thing.” 

“I know, I know. But you have to be somewhere, Chris.” He explained, widening his eyes and gesturing wildly. “You've already ditched the supplements guy. But underwear modeling is something that's always up in the market, good money, good cache, great divulgation.” 

Chris scratched his chin. It was true. He didn't have many contracts right now, focusing more on working out and training for the upcoming fights. But he hated doing those things, he was an athlete, not a pretty faced celebrity with no brains and too much ambition. 

“Hey,” Phil called, already knowing he had him. “We've worked with them before, they loved you.” He chuckled, bringing out a stash of magazines out of nowhere. He threw one on Chris' lap, his own face looking up at him from the cover of a late edition. “Remember?" Chris twisted his lips. "You have to beat these newbies, Chris. You're famous, you're chiseled, that's what people want, what men want, men want to look like you, want to be you.” He convinced, dragging the words in that impossible pleading tone. 

Phil paused for effect seeing as Chris hesitated, and threw the last magazine on his lap. “Look at that, their last edition, they're desperate.” 

Chris looked down, raking his eyes over the cover, a pretty, young faced boy with blond curls, glinting blue eyes and a spectacular backside. 

Chris whistled, “Nice ass.” 

Phil ignored him. “Come on, man. The event is next week, you have no more fights until next month.” Phil said, the pleading tone more evident along with those imploring eyes. He was a pain in the ass, that's for sure, but Phil was very good at his job, and that was the only reason Chris kept him around. 

Chris hummed thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the cute boy at the cover. He slid his finger over the magazine to stop at the firm buttocks. He chewed on his lip and murmured, “Then put my name on the list.” 

 

-

 

“And then an interview next Wednesday, at two pm. I've arranged for you to have lunch with your sister at the hotel's restaurant before. Your mother called, wanting to know your plans for the holidays, uhm...” His agent went on, flicking the pages of his agenda to continue reciting his schedule for him on a bored voice. 

Tom hummed to show he was paying attention. He had become absurdly busy at the end of the year, and he was still a little out of breath by his sudden rise in fame. 

After the magazine had been printed he gained some thousand more followers on Twitter. He had also received a positive feedback from the editor and from some other important names inside the fashion world. The special section about him, containing his other photoshoot's pictures and his interview to the magazine was very well reviewed. The last question in particular rose great speculation. The interviewer had asked him if he'd ever thought about posing naked, at which Tom had laughed nervously and given a vague answer. 

“... and the agency's charity event.” His agent finished, the sound of the agenda thumping shut from the other side of the room. 

Tom was still adjusting his curls in the mirror, but caught his eye through the reflection and smiled. “Thanks, Luke.” 

Luke nodded, pointing at the bow tie Tom still hadn't been able to fix. “Some help with that?” 

Tom sighed, he had been trying to get it right since forever. “Please.” 

Luke chuckled and rose from his armchair to fix it for him. “Your ride is already downstairs.” He supplied, ridding Tom's impeccable black suit of any dust with a gentle hand. 

“Perfect.” Tom said, turning to the mirror again and gulping nervously. “How do I look?” He asked. 

Luke snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Tom, please, you're dashing and you know it.” 

Tom laughed half-heartedly, walking to the door and further to the elevator. Luke came afterward with his coat and as they waited for the lift, he appeased Tom with his sound advice. “No need to be nervous, they'll be licking your shoes.” 

The bell of the lift ringed and they entered the fortunately empty space. “Yes, but, you know,” Tom bit his lip, looking down at his body. “I'm all lean and skinny.” 

“Tom,” Luke pleaded with wide eyes. “You're a model. They wanted you, that's why they contacted you. If they were after perfect, Adonis-like men, they wouldn't have called you.” Luke shrugged, putting on a reassuring smile. “Besides, you've brought them more money than any other hard-faced athlete.” 

Tom laughed, feeling lighter on his feet. It was true, of course. But he was about to attend the underwear's event and felt suddenly self-conscious. He knew other celebrities who still worked for the brand would be attending, manly, beefy men with hard pecs and six packs. He would feel like a bird's feather amidst them, intimated beyond belief. However, despite his young age and childlike looks, the magazine's edition had a huge incoming and it was all thanks to Tom. 

His ride awaited for him at the curb and when he exited the door, a rush of cold wind hit him. Luke came quickly and wrapped his long coat around him, Tom hugging it welcomely against his body. The chauffeur opened the backseat door for him, Tom seating and breathing out a relieved sigh at the warmth encased inside the car. As the driver closed the door and went back to his seat, Tom rolled down the window to see Luke's smiling face. 

“Will you be fine without me?” His agent asked. Luke had an appointment or something with his family and wouldn't be able to accompany him, a fact that also added to his nervousness. 

Tom smiled, sniffling at the cold air. “Yes, thank you, Luke.” 

Luke smiled. “Have a good night, Tom. Enjoy yourself.” But before the chauffeur could start the car, Luke added in a hurried voice. “Careful with the drinks.” 

Tom laughed and rolled up the window as the car swerved and joined the traffic. 

He leaned his forehead on the window's glass and watched the streets. The sky was darkening outside, full of clouds. The lamplights were on, spreading a yellow light over the snow-covered sidewalk. Tom played with his cuffs to distract his mind until the hotel's entrance was visible. The car parked softly in front of it. 

Tom took in a deep breath at all the brightness. The doors to the hotel were open invintingly, casting its light outside. The red carpet covered the few stairs leading to it, sliding down into the sidewalk, lined with abodyguards and attendants. One of them came forward as Tom's car parked, opening the door for him and smiling as he exited. Tom nodded and thanked him, handing him his coat as the man directed him toward the entrance. Tom missed the warmth immediately. 

There were also a few photographers, held back by a bouncer line. They all called for him and Tom stopped shortly after a moment of hesitation, smiling and posing so they could take their pictures. 

After a few snaps, he turned, blinking quickly to dismiss the sudden blindness the flashes had inflicted him with. He heard some more shouts for another, but just smiled and held his hand in apology. Luke wasn't here with him and he'd better control himself before he tried to please everyone and ended up losing the whole event. 

A woman dressed richly stood by the doors. She held a thin, black velvet book in her hands but didn't even bat her eyes or asked his name upon seeing him, just waving courteously at the door. Tom nodded gratefully and stepped inside. 

The hotel's hall was grand and artistic, lights glowing everywhere and red carpet lining the whole inside. At the back and left, a bar was open, with lining, colorful drinks and tall glasses, serving the guests. The waiters were dressed in white, carrying trays in their gloved hands. The guests were standing, each in their own little groups, talking quietly and holding themselves as if they were very important. 

Tom gulped, walking slowly, looking around for any familiar faces while trying to make himself invisible. The photographer from the photoshoot was there, on a horrible purple suit. He caught sight of Tom and beamed. 

“Oh, there he is!” He said, a little too loudly, dispersing some conversations as a few people who stood closer stopped and eyed him. “Tom!” He walked toward him, arms open and holding a glass of what appeared to be champagne on his hand. 

Tom smiled and waved awkwardly, regretting the motion later. 

“Oh, Tom!” The man said, hugging Tom's shoulder with one arm. “Our golden boy. You look fantastic.” He watched Tom with that unnerving eyeful of him, pausing after every syllable for effect. Tom gave a tight smile, uncomfortable. The man continued, “Everyone is so pleased with your presence here. Actually...” He gulped some of the liquid in his glass. “Let me show you around. Fred, here he is!” He exclaimed, turning Tom around to face some friend of his, with square glasses and bleached blond hair. 

“Oh my god!” The man gasped, hand over his heart in astonishment. “Tom Hiddleston! You are so much prettier in person.” Tom blushed, scratching his head and accepting Fred's hug as he all but flung his arms around him. 

Tom met everyone, or yet, everyone met Tom, seeing as he could do no more than wave and greet them before Fred and the photographer turned him around. As predicted, there were a lot of tall, muscled men too, hanging with women full of silicone by their arms. Some were very friendly, shaking Tom's hand and complimenting his photos and talent. Others just eyed him and huffed, turning around to get out of his path. 

What felt like an eternity of hugs and small talks and half-hearted compliments later, Tom managed to escape. He looked around lostly, gaze falling at the bar, quiet in its own corner with only a few guests seated by the stool nursing some drink or another. 

He slid toward it on tired feet, leaning his arms over the bar stool and sighing. A bartender came to attend him not one second later. “Uhm-” Tom hummed, trying to think of what to ask for. “A gin and tonic, please.” 

The man nodded and went to fetch him the drink, which arrived quickly. He sipped it gingerly, the alcohol falling almost familiarly on his throat. Tom's heart rate slowed gradually as he looked around to take the room in, the other guests around him with their quiet chatter over the low music. 

“Aren't you a little too young to be drinking that?” A deep voice asked from his left. 

Tom turned quickly, almost choking on his drink. A blond, tall, strong man with a bristled chin and startling blue eyes sat a few seats away from him. Tom blushed furiously. The man was huge. Tom could see the bulge of his upper muscles stretching the black suit he wore, feeling a little weak on the knees at the sight of him. 

The man smiled wolfishly, eyes raking him over with clear intent. But strangely, Tom didn't feel averted or uncomfortable at the stare, on the contrary, he felt dizzy and warm. 

“Erm-” Tom cleared his throat, licking his lips, the movement followed by the man's eyes. He couldn't think of anything to say and just felt very, very small, with his thin waist and delicate bone structure, blond, bobbing curls. He felt like a baby, a child next to this mountain of a man. Oh, Jesus. 

“Relax, cover boy.” The man added before a small laugh which sounded positively erotic. 

Tom swallowed nervously and looked around, but no one seemed to be interested on them. He grabbed his drink again and took a challenging gulp, barely managing to contain the liquid inside his mouth. He spread his hands over the bar stool and eyed the man through the corner of his eye, the blond just raising an eyebrow playfully. Tom took a deep breath.  
“I'm nineteen years old, sir.” He said in his defense, glad that his voice hadn't come out as bad as he thought it would. 

The man's chest rumbled with his laughter and he slid his glass smoothly over the top of the bar stool, the drink stopping right next to Tom's hand. He was about to excuse himself out of sheer cowardice when the blond rose from his seat and closed the distance between them by sitting himself right next to Tom, turning his body toward him, legs spread. 

Tom tried to ignore their proximity, as from a distance it could be said Tom was standing right between the man's legs in some weird cocoon, with him being much smaller and thinner. 

The blond couldn't possibly take his eyes off Tom, watching his adorable rosy cheeks and the way he bit his lip to fight back a nervous smile. 

“Chris Hemsworth.” He said, serious, extending his hand out for Tom. 

Tom glanced at it quickly before turning to him, Chris. Yes, Chris Hemsworth, the fighter. He almost choked on his own breath. Tom had never watched any of his fights, but his was a well-known name, he thought he had already probably heard it from someone on the streets or maybe in the news once or twice. He took in a breath and controlled himself. 

“Tom Hiddleston.” He said and released his lip to finally smile like he wanted to, grasping Chris' hand with his, albeit thinner one. Their shake was slow and full of a meaning Tom avoided recognizing for fear of the strange coiling excitement in his stomach. Chris winked his way and released his hand to turn and nurse his drink, honey-like and full of ice cubes. Tom deflated a little, thinking that was all, but was pleasantly surprised when Chris clicked his tongue and turned heavy eyes on him again, slowly and knowingly. 

Tom giggled, scratching his nose for lack of a better thing to do with his hands, feeling like a ridiculous schoolgirl but not being able to help it. 

“Tom,” Chris began, and Tom almost whined at his name coming from his lips. “I must say, though I think this bunch of retards have already told you that, you're much more beautiful in person.” 

Tom swallowed, taking another sip of his drink as his face heated. “Thank you.” He replied timidly. 

Chris shrugged as if it was nothing, turning away from him to watch the other guests. Tom took the moment to repair himself, feeling his curls self-consciously and hoping to god Chris wouldn't see any of his flaws. 

“I'll be honest when I say that one of the reasons why I accepted this invitation” Chris continued, still looking away. Tom watched him expectantly. “Was to personally compliment you on your absolutely _amazing_ ass.” Chris turned to him, eyes dark. 

Tom gaped, unsure of what to say, reddening like a strawberry. “Ahn-Ah, thank you.” He breathed finally, looking down. 

Chris gave a one-sided smile and slid closer until the end of his knees were touching the back of Tom's thighs. Tom returned the smile, eyes locking until what felt like a whole minute passed, after which Tom ducked his head with the intensity of their eyelock, chuckling and playing with his fingers. 

“I take it you saw my photos, then?” Tom asked, risking a glance at Chris again, catching a whiff of his cologne, masculine and spicy. 

“You bet.” Chris said, curtly, and as if it couldn't get any better, held one of Tom's fingers in his own so he'd stop to fidget. 

Tom held in his breath, taking a minute to look at the simple gesture, one of his fingers laced in one of Chris', his body crowding him in. It seemed amazing how those hands that were so used to beating and punching would curl like that around his delicate finger, such a tender gesture. 

Chris watched his profile, his nose, the lonely freckle in his ear, his pale neck, his long eyelashes, and decided to be bolder. He inched closer until their faces were almost touching, Tom's lips curling and giving him a short and quick, embarrassed glance. “I also read that interview.” He said on a lower, more seductive tone. “And I think the fans would love a naked session.” 

Tom looked down, biting his lip slowly. His heart beat madly inside his chest, his cheeks burning until he was sure he would pass out from the amount of blood running to his head. 

Chris had all this masculine, raw power over him, which instead of making Tom want to curl and hide just had him all the more attracted. 

“You do?” Tom asked, shyly, turning to watch him, trying to stop the fluttering of his eyelashes but finding it impossible. 

Chris's grin widened slowly, and he shrugged. “Well, I can speak for myself when I say that _I_ would love it.” 

Tom eyed him seriously until he couldn't hold it any longer and giggled, Chris laughing lowly on his own. Tom ducked his head and hid his eyes with a hand. “Jesus”, he breathed, giddy and embarrassed, but strangely happy. Gods, this man was too much. 

Chris laughed, finishing his drink with one long gulp. “I'm sorry, am I being too forward?”, he asked over a smirk, no trace of regret visible. 

Tom tried to catch his breath although his voice still came out a little shaky. “Kind of, yes.” 

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.” Chris apologized, hand over his heart like he swore it. 

Tom shook his head and looked at him again. “It's fine.” 

“Really? An old man hitting on a young beauty like you?” Chris asked, challenging. 

Tom chuckled. “Old man? I bet not.” His eyes involuntarily switched to Chris' obvious fit physique, the blond following the movement and narrowing his eyes predatorily. Tom felt another wave of heat spreading over him, and he could bet his whole upper body was as rosy as his whole face and neck. 

Chris gave another one of his rumbling laughs, “No? Let's see, what age would you give me?” He asked, opening his arms as if to be inspected. 

Tom hummed, feeling a little more adventurous, probably the alcohol already having its effects on him; he had always been a lightweight. 

Based on Chris' body, Tom would say he was in his mid-twenties, although the man already had some faint lines and scars on his face. But he was also a fighter, which meant he had suffered a lot more injuries than an average person, which obviously left its marks behind. “Uhm-” Tom couldn't decide. 

Chris raised and eyebrow and leaned back, Tom missing his body proximity instantly. “I will give you a tip.” Chris raised his index finger slowly, watching Tom's lovely blush and blue eyes. Tom nodded. “I'm ten years older than you.” 

Tom gasped, laughing. “You're twenty-nine?” 

“Yes,” Chris said, scratching his head a little embarrassedly. “Almost on the third case.” 

“Wow.” Tom whispered, gulping more of his drink until the bottom of his glass was visible. 

“Are you weirded out now?” Chris asked, and despite his light and playful tone, Tom could detect a hint of insecurity there. 

Tom smirked and shook his head, curls bobbing. “No”, he whispered sincerely. 

Something in Chris' eyes darkened at the response, like it was all he had been needing to hear. His nostrils flared and he leaned forward again. He brought his other hand, the one that wasn't holding Tom's finger over the bar stool, to flick one of his curls. “Tom,” he began, making him shiver in anticipation, shit, Tom knew what he was about to ask, and maybe it felt suffocating and wrong. 

Luke wasn't here. What would he say if he knew that his nineteen year old client went to an event without him and ended up jumping into someone's bed? A fairly older someone. 

Fuck what he'd say, Tom decided. He wanted this, wanted Chris, this big fighter with gentle hands and second intentions. Tom wanted to have this, although he would probably faint and wouldn't possibly be able to go through with it. Chris looked like he was dominant and rough in bed, probably used to getting anyone he wanted in any way. And Tom... Tom was fragile and shy, used to containing his libido, unexperienced, a virgin. 

Chris licked his lips, eyes focused on Tom's own like a predator ready to dine a new prey. “What would you say if we-” 

“Tom!” A loud voice spoke from behind them, Chris groaning, leaning back almost impossibly fast and Tom turning wide eyes to the person, suddenly very aware of their position and the no doubt gigantic flush on his face. 

It was Kenneth, the company's president, and if Tom felt self-conscious about his blush, he didn't any longer, for the man was visibly drunk, cheeks reddened and sweat sprouting on his brow. 

Kenneth, for his part, didn't look neither surprised nor bothered by their proximity. And if so, he didn't let it show. The fact was that Tom had been so entranced in his talk with Chris that, for a minute, he had forgotten his surroundings and the certain repercussions of their sudden closeness. Chris, however, looked calm, unperturbed, although he had leaned back on his stool, the distance between them now only enough to be considered that of friends chatting lightly, or even that of complete strangers that had sat next to one another without any clear intention. 

“Oh, you met Chris Hemsworth already?” Kenneth slurred, coming to stand next to them, one hand on Tom's shoulder and the other on Chris'. “Handsome lad, isn't he?” He asked Tom on a pathetic whisper which was obviously heard by Chris, if his enormous grin was anything to go by. 

“Yes.” Tom said, to the first question, Chris raising his brows seductively, making Tom blush and stutter. “I-I mean, I've met him, but no, yes, he's, erm-” 

Kenneth laughed, throwing his head back. Tom flushed and looked down, Chris shaking his head. 

“Well, Chris here did a wonderful job with us, didn't you, Chris?” Kenneth asked, turning his hazy eyes to the blond fighter, who smirked and patted his back in salute. 

“Sure, Ken, the pleasure was all mine.” Kenneth laughed again. 

Tom's eyes widened minimally. He didn't realize Chris had modeled for them too, which was obvious, since he was here and very – all - hot as hell. 

Tom looked unsurely between the two of them, gulping, Chris' eyes still glued on him as Kenneth's laughter faded in the background. 

“You should see his edition someday, Tom.” Ken whispered, once again loud enough for Chris to hear. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He hiccupped after widening his eyes pointedly. Tom swallowed and looked at Chris, who just winked. Tom smiled. “Now come along,” Ken patted his shoulder heavily. “I shall thank you on my speech later. Let me introduce you to some of my other, influential friends.” 

Tom opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say in order to escape. He didn't want to go back to boring small talk, he wanted to stay here with Chris, or even, go to a more secluded place with him. Just the thought of it had him dizzy. Chris had 'implied' in a very objective way that he would like very much to see Tom naked. 

But now Chris took on a more rigid expression and rose from his seat, pulling down the lapels of his suit professionally. Tom, who was still standing, was pleasantly surprised to find that Chris had a few inches over him. 

The blond fighter smiled amicably. “Well, I shall take my leave, then. I'm sure my agent has already done his job and convinced someone to take me back.” 

Ken laughed, letting Tom go to hug Chris messily. “Don't say that. You've never left us.” Chris tapped his back and eyed Tom from Ken's shoulder. Tom giggled, if not a little disappointedly. Damn, why was Chris going? 

“Thanks, Ken.” Chris continued, patting him even though Ken clenched his arms around him. “Ken. Ken.” 

Ken nodded, stepping back from his arms hesitantly. Chris rolled his eyes at Tom. 

Ken threw himself over the bar stool to ask for a special drink before taking Tom away and Chris dodged him and went to stand before the young model. His eyes were sharp, intense and so so blue. Tom blushed but didn't break their eyelock this time. Chris gave a lopsided grin and clasped one of Tom's hands, bringing it up to his lips so he could leave a soft kiss over Tom's knuckles. Gods, could this man be more perfect? 

“Tom, 'was a pleasure.” Tom smiled endearingly, fluttering his eyelashes purposefuly. Chris gave him a sly eyeful, and when Tom felt a hand sliding over his to slip a small fold of paper in it, his smile widened. 

Chris huffed, thumb coming up to caress Tom's chin. “You're lovely.” He whispered, and just like that, turned around and left, until his tall figure was lost amidst the fancy crowd. 

Tom's heart fluttered like butterfly wings, and he furtively looked down at his hand, at the folded piece of napkin, opening it slowly to catch a glimpse of hurried scribbled down numbers. He beamed, biting his lip and looking at the crowd once more, trying to find broad shoulders, bulging arms, a blond head. 

“Let's go, Tommy.” It was Ken, who dragged him down across the hall with a guiding hand on his lower back. Tom flinched, his touch was so different from Chris', the nickname so unfamiliar. 

Through the remaining of the evening Tom was presented to all the guests, everyone's faces unimportant and common, for he was always looking around to try and catch Chris, maybe seated by the bar, with glinting eyes and a knowing smirk, maybe standing by the entrance, with long legs and a folded paper in his hand. But it was useless, because Chris was gone. 

 

-

 

Tom groaned out of sleep, hiding his face under the pillow. 

His. Head. Ached. Catastrophically so. 

Oh dear, if only he had just refused those damned drinks he wouldn't be in such a state now. But he hadn't thought about the consequences last night. Ugh, of course not. 

He tried to go back to sleep but found his efforts useless, he couldn't escape the throb of veins in his temples, the soiled ache behind his eyes nor the nausea that now twisted his stomach in knots. 

Tom rose slowly, testing his body's response to movement. It was harder to open his eyes at first but once he had blinked enough he could take a look around his surroundings. Where was he again? Oh, right, in the hotel. He remembered it now. His ride had come back to retrieve him last night and he might have possibly slept on the backseat before the driver nudged him awake. Then he had called Luke who sounded preoccupied but asked to talk to the driver and next thing he knew the man was helping him inside the hotel where he had been at before the event. 

Tom stood up with the clear decision of closing the curtains which allowed the glaring sunlight in when the contents of his stomach decided to start a revolution. He managed to put his hand over his mouth before running to the toilet. 

It left an acrid and disgusting taste in his mouth afterwards and left him with no choice other than to brush his teeth before breakfast, which thinking about now, he had no idea if he'd have the disposition to eat anything. 

He went back to the bedroom and managed to close the curtains before lying back down again. The realisation that he was only in his boxers didn't reach his brain until he was once more safe inside his warm covers. Apparently the driver also had to undress him. He grunted. Tom spent so much time trying to convince others that he wasn't a child anymore and now look at him, having to be dragged drunk and unconscious to his room by his driver, who had undressed him and probably cleaned his drool. 

Well, none of it mattered now and Tom was almost going back to sleep when the sound of the lock turning awakened him. 

He turned cloudy eyes to it until the door opened and Luke stepped out from behind it, carrying a suit on a hanger and a Styrofoam box. 

His agent settled everything on the coffee table and glimpsed at him, eyebrows rising slightly in surprise. “You alright, sleeping beauty?” 

Tom whined and hid his face under the covers. Luke laughed shortly in the background and bended to retrieve something he had brought inside. 

“Here, take these pills with some water.” Tom slipped an eye from over the cover to see Luke standing by his bedside with an outstretched hand holding a small, white pill and a bottle of water. He grinned, sitting on the mattress and swallowing it down. It slid to his empty stomach like a heavy rock falling on a river, making him twist his face. 

Luke chuckled and went back to stand next to the coffee table. “I brought you some breakfast too, though I should've probably brought lunch.” 

“Lunch?” Tom asked, his tongue dry inside his mouth. Luke nodded over a sardonic smile. Tom just blinked his way. “Luke, what time is it?” 

Luke shrugged but answered. “Half past two.” 

Tom shut his eyes and folded his kness into his chest, holding his legs closer to his body. Shit. 

Luke smiled in simpathy and handed him the Styrofoam box, which contained an apple, a bottled orange juice and some toasts. He mumbled his thanks but made no move to touch the food, prefering to only stare at it as it lay next to his feet. 

“Told you to be careful with the drinks.” Luke said teasingly, laughing to himself. 

Tom groaned and rubbed his eyes. “I only had two drinks.” He defended himself, brows scrunching in stubborness. “And the first didn't even...” He trailed off, raising his head with wide eyes. 

It was true. Chris. It had been true. It wasn't a dream, he had asked his first drink with Chris and the man was real and he had met him and he smelled deliciously and looked even better and they had been about to- The card. Where was it? 

Luke watched with strange eyes, as if sensing his distress. “Tom?” He asked tentatively, but Tom leapt out of bed and dodged him, looking for the folded piece of paper. “Tom, what is it?” Luke's voice was a little louder, following the blond head of curls and he went from one place to another in the room. 

“The paper.” Tom shouted over his shoulder, going to the bathroom and coming out with hands on his head, looking like a ghost. 

Luke frowned. “What paper, Tom?” 

But Tom ignored him, pacing on the room, not knowing where to look for it. He had lost it. Chris' number, the only way to contact him on a more private sense. 

He settled his hands on his waist, the headache an unpleasant company. His brows scrunched tight and Luke was eyeing him like he had gone mad. “Where is my suit?” He asked Luke. He had kept the folded piece of napkin in his breast pocket, feeling its edges all night through the suit to assuage his beating heart. 

Luke pointed to the suit he had brought with him, standing back to watch as Tom ran to it and looked inside every pocket. “Tom.” He called, voice in that peaceful tone when he knew Tom was overreacting and wanted to calm him. 

Tom searched his pockets frantically, hands only coming out full of bleached business cards. A thin film of cold sweat was starting to sprout on his body. “Tom.” Luke called again but Tom continued until the pieces of his suit lay on a crumpled mess. 

Tom gave up, cupping his hands over his face to ward off the tears. 

“Tom.” Luke came to him, hand on his shoulder. Tom whined in response. “I think you're looking for this.” 

Tom retrieved his hands, blinking at the folded napkin Luke extended to him. He gasped, snatching it quickly out of his hands. 

Luke just raised an eyebrow, face serious. Tom ducked his head in embarassment, flushing and grasping the napkin tightly in his fist. 

“I took your suit for cleaning in the morning and found this inside of one the pockets.” He shrugged. “Thought you'd like to keep it.” 

Tom nodded. “Thank you, Luke.” He mumbled on a weak voice. 

Luke had seen the paper, the numbers. Chris' name wasn't written anywhere on it but Tom's desperation to find the napkin and the cliché of it all made everything obvious enough. He didn't want to hide it, but now felt embarassed because Luke had seen it. 

Luke smiled, “Hey.” He said, and Tom glanced his way only to let his gaze wander again. “I know you probably know what I'm about to tell you, but Tom, please, be careful.” Tom gulped and nodded curtly. “I won't reprimand you because I don't think you're doing anything wrong, you can get involved with anyone you'd like, it's your choice, but-” Luke pursed his lips, looking at him in that worried way his mother usually did. He bit his lip, undecided, and sighed longsufferingly. “Just promise me you'll be careful.” 

Tom nodded quickly, wanting this conversation to finish. Luke scratched his head and turned to fix his suit, forgotten on the coffee table haphazardly. Tom didn't know what to do so he went back to the bed and found enough appetite to eat his breakfast. 

“So, should I ask?” Luke shot a look at him from over his shoulder, lips curved upwards. 

Tom gave a nervous, breathy laugh, cheeks rosy. “Please don't.” 

Luke rolled his eyes at him. “Alright, Cinderella, no questions asked.” 

Tom huffed and they spent the next hour discussing Luke's addiction to fairy tales' references. Tom still clutched the napkin in his hand, wondering just what to do now. Would he have the courage to actually contact Chris? 

~*~ 

“Chris, Chris!” His coach called on his usual loud voice. “Focus on the right side, you're leaving it too open.” 

Chris nodded, huffing and pushing a lock of hair out of his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. His eyes turned back to his opponent, a darker man rougly the same size as him. Chris faked a swing, distracting him so he could land a punch on his left side. The man groaned but returned to his stance, recoiling. 

Chris groaned and closed the distance between them, leg coming out to tangle on the other man's, body weighing him down on the rubbery floor as Chris got him on a headlock. 

His coach clapped curtly. “Good, good. We're done for the day, you did great.” 

Chris let the man go and stood, shaking hands and crouching down for his practice bag. He grabbed his water bottle and gulped it down, letting some of the rest fall on his face and chest to refresh his body. His coach approached with slow steps. Chris spared him a glance and quick smile before dragging his cellphone from the bottom of his bag, checking it before clicking his tongue and throwing it at the bag again. 

“How was it last night?” His coach asked with an easy smile, hands in his pant pockets. 

Chris chuckled and shrugged. “The same as always. I think Phil managed to persuade someone.” 

His coach nodded. “I'll be expecting another maganize then. You know, to keep away from my wife.” He widened his eyes playfully and Chris laughed. Last time Chris had handed him one of the print outs and Robert had taken it home, except his wife found it and begged him for autographs which annoyed him but amused Chris to no end. Robert said she still hadn't gotten over it. 

Chris grabbed his bag and stood to head to the showers, but Robert put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he called, “I was serious, your right side,” He patted Chris' right ribcage for a point. “Protect it, man. Your opponent on the championship might not be so unattentive as Terry.” He pointed back to Chris' fighting partner who stood panting and grabbing his own things at the other side of the makeshift ring. 

Chris nodded seriously, patting Robert's arm in understanding. Robert winked and let him go to the showers. 

~*~ 

The engine of his car rumbled as Chris turned the ignition on, the sound dragging a slow grin out of him. He adjusted his rearview mirror and was just about to maneuver his car out of the gym's parking lot when his phone started ringing. He dug his hand into his practice bag to find it, locating the piece of metal and bringing it out. 

He anxiously looked to the caller id, deflating when seeing Liam's dork face staring back at him. He huffed and answered, “Hey, Liam.” 

“Hey, mate.” Liam's voice responded. “Listen, I know you're not busy so don't even try to ramble a million excuses again. So, where are you spending the holidays?” 

Chris groaned. He had forgotten about it, actually. The last things on his mind which he had been planning revolved around ravishing a young model and his debut on the next championship. He knew his family had agreed to spend the holidays together back in Australia, he didn't, however, had to heart to tell them he wouldn't be able to participate. The main championship started just a few days after New Year and Chris wanted to be ready. Miami would be hosting it, and even though he was still in London, if he went to Australia for the holidays he wouldn't be able to arrive for his first fight on time. Chris knew his mother would be really upset and so kept postponing the day when he would tell them. 

“Chris?” Liam asked after the silence. 

“Yeah,” Chris said, supporting his elbow on the wheel and scratching his forehead. “Liam, listen, I-” 

“Oh, no, mate.” Liam cut him. “I know what you're going to say, just-” He gave one of those deep and long sighs when he was being mature. “Mom asks about you everyday and it's getting hard to lie. I think dad is suspicious but he doesn't say anything. And, shit, Chris, when was the last time you saw them? I don't remember the last time we saw each other and I'm the only family member who still keeps in touch with you!” He accused, the words making Chris cringe. 

It was true, though. Chris missed his family very much but he was too deeply invested on this championship. And he knew why: it was because he would be turning thirty soon and winning this would serve to prove to himself that his career wasn't over yet. “Liam, I have to be in Miami on January third. I can't afford to spend the holidays in Australia, I need to do well on this.” 

“Right, sure. Your career, I've heard it before.” Liam said on a bored tone of voice. “I don't blame you or anything, but Luke is here, his wife is here, the kids are here, I am here, mom and dad miss you. You realize you're being an asshole by not coming, right?” 

Chris sighed, the curves of his mouth turning downwards. “I do.” 

“Great. See you someday, then, I think.” 

“Liam,” Chris called when he felt his brother was to about to hang up. “Tell them I'm sorry. I really am. They have to understand it.” 

“Sure, yeah.” He said, on a sadder voice. 

Chris ended the call, sighing. He scratched his eyes and willed himself to forget about it. His mother would probably call him tonight too, to cry and say she missed him which always happened when he turned her down. And the thing is he missed her too, he missed dad and he missed Luke and even Liam, but he couldn't go. 

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and drove away to park at the hotel. At his room, he threw himself in bed and was about to doze off when his phone ringed again. He would normally ignore it, but he remembered handing Tom his number last night, so he groaned and stood. He could use a fuck right now to ease his mind off. 

Except it wasn't Tom calling. Chris sighed and went back to bed, letting the phone ring. 

 

-

 

Emma gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were glinting just like they always did when she was about to tease Tom or when she was really happy for him. 

Tom smiled shyly and ducked his head. He was having lunch with his younger sister at the hotel's restaurant before he had to go for an interview. He had arrived early and waited for her to show up and wave excitedly. They had started talking over their menus but Emma sensed something odd with him. The time it took for their dishes to arrive were the time Emma bugged him about it, begging for him to tell her, giving him that old puppy look which he couldn't say no to. In the end, he had told her about Chris, a decision he was sure he was going to regret. 

“Oh my god.” She said behind her hands, eyes wide with mirth. She dropped her hands so Tom could see her hanging mouth. “Oh my god.” She repeated, dragging the syllabes one at a time. 

Tom sneaked a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening to their conversation. Luke said he had to be discreet and very careful with what he told other people, even more so when he was in public. Tom had a vague suspicion that his agent had only said that because Tom hadn't managed to completely repel the question about a future naked shoot. Fortunately, the restaurant wasn't full, with only a family seated by the far door and some uninterested businessmen texting on their phones. 

Tom took a sip of his orange juice, turning to Emma only to find her on her phone. He recognized that little devilish look. “What are you doing?” He tried to take her phone out of her hands but his sister dodged, giggling. “Emma, what are you doing?” He repeated, but Emma ignored him, her eyes going suddenly wider as she froze. Tom watched her until she turned the phone's screen to him, and shit, it was Chris, it was an amazing picture of him, bare chest shining, with fingerless, black gloves around his hands, small and tight shorts, he was holding his fists up and grinning, probably after winning a fight. 

“Holy fuck.” Emma said, pointing at the screen and giving Tom an amazed look. Tom felt his face burning. 

“Emma, don't curse.” He chastised for lack of something else to say. 

She ignored him, going back to her phone and switching pictures. “Wow,” she gasped, finger sliding over the screen. “Wow.” She stopped and gave Tom a quick glance before looking back. “Wow.” 

“Give me that, stop it.” Tom tried to take the phone out of her hands again. Emma leaned back on her seat and giggled madly. 

“You want to see it too, don't you?” She teased, hiding her phone in her lap where Tom couldn't reach over the table. “Just google him, dear. Shit, he's awesome.” She gave her phone's screen a last apprasing look before locking it. She looked back at Tom and grinned. 

Tom sighed, aware of his flaming cheeks. 

“You still haven't called him?” Emma asked after apparently calming herself down. 

Tom shook his head, shrugging. “I don't know what to say! What if he answered it?” 

Emma rolled her eyes. “Well, that's the point of calling someone, isn't it?” 

Tom clicked his tongue and looked around to avoid his sister's knowingly eyes. 

“You're scared, aren't you?” Emma asked, her softer voice making Tom turn to her again. She had a small, understanding smile. “You think he's just after sex, isn't it?” Tom nodded, looking down and playing with the edges of his napkin. 

Emma took in a deep breath and supported her chin in her palm, posing like a great philosopher. “Well, I'm going to be honest with you, little brother,” Tom shot her a quick, cold look. He hated when Emma gave him advices and pretended to be older than him. “There's a high probability that he's, indeed, just after your cute ass.” 

Tom gave her a disbelieving look. 

“But, really, would you turn down sex with him?” She widened her eyes, pointedly looking down at her phone. She huffed. “I surely wouldn't.” 

“Emma, you're too young to say those things about men you don't even know.” He reprimanded, knowing full well Emma wouldn't listen. 

His sister grinned atop her hand, cocking her head to the side. “You're jealous.” She whispered. 

Tom huffed. “That's not the point. Look,” He looked around again and again no one seemed interested in their conversation. “I'm,” He sighed. “I'm a virgin, okay?” Emma didn't look surprised, in fact, she just raised her eyebrows to show how the information wasn't any news to her. Tom tried again. “He's- He's older and probably has a million women dropping at his feet, it seems suspicious that he'd be interested in me of all people.” 

Emma hummed, playing with her salad boredly. She blinked and looked his way again. “Age is nothing but a number, and you underestimate yourself. There's nothing wrong if a man like him finds your ass delectable,” Tom blushed and tried to interrupt her, but she just went on like a robot. “What, however, could possibly make it wrong would be if you didn't welcome his advances or were uncomfortable with it, which, I dare say, is not the case.” She shrugged with an air of finality. “If he wants it, and more importantly, if you want it, I say do it.” 

Tom just kept looking at her. When did his younger sister become more mature than him? Tom looked down, opening and closing his mouth. “But mom and dad-” 

“Please, Thomas, mom and dad wouldn't even know about it.” Emma rebuffed, waving her hand and looking so much like their mother when they were young and being unreasonable. Tom smiled at the resamblance, for which his sister just shrugged and said, “What?” and continued to eat her rabbit food. 

Tom shook his head and took tiny bits of his own food. The reason why he hesitated on telling Emma or Sarah had been because he knew they would tell him exactly what he wanted but feared to do. Now, with Emma's blessing, he saw no barriers between him and the phone number which he had so excitedly stored in his phone's contacts, and that knowledge only served to fuel the little box of nerves in his system. 

Lunch went normally, Emma fortunately avoiding the topic seeing as lingering on it would surely make him uncomfortable. She told him the news regarding the family and Tom talked to her about his latest shoot and his rise in fame. 

“Will you do it?” Emma asked with a malicious smile. 

“Do what?” 

“Pose naked, dummy.” She rolled her eyes. 

Tom froze. “Where did you hear that?” 

“Well, excuse me but I read my brother's interview...” 

Tom didn't have anything to say to that so he went back to his juice until Emma kicked him under the table. He choked and sent her a dark look. He would tell Luke to never invite her for lunch again. “I don't know, probably not.” 

Emma giggled and Tom saw someone waving at him over her shoulder outside the restaurant's doors. It was Luke, whom when catching his gaze pointed at his own wristwatch. The interview. 

Tom looked down at his wrist, he was late. He finished his juice hurriedly and took the napkin out of his lap, Emma looking up. “Sorry, Ems, I have an interview now. I gotta go. Tell the waiter to put this on my bill.” He stood to kiss her forehead in goodbye. 

Emma hummed. “Hey,” she called when he was about to go. Tom turned to her and she winked, mouthing “Call him.” 

He rolled his eyes and went away before his sister could encourage him any further. 

~*~ 

Tom tried to call him that night, he really did. Seating on his hotel bed, after tossing and turning and not managing to find any sleep, on an unusual burst of bravery, he had decided to give Chris a call. It rang twice and just before the third ring Tom hung up nervously, tapping the screen much more than what was necessary to finalize the call. 

He realised it had been a very stupid move afterwards. His number would be saved on Chris' phone as the crazy person who called at – he checked the time – 2 am. Ugh, Jesus. Tom fell back on the bed and groaned. What if Chris called? What if Tom had awakened him from his much needed sleep? What if got angry at Tom and his cowardice and decided he didn't want to have sex with him anymore? 

Tom rose to grab a glass of water, suddenly feeling too hot. It was when he was setting the glass back that he heard his phone buzzing over the mattress. He turned slowly, wide eyed. There it was, his phone with its light on. Stop it, Thomas; the little reasonable voice inside his mind said. It was just a message, maybe it was nothing, just an automatic message from his telephone company. At this time? No. 

He approached it very carefully, grabbing it and seeing the new message sign. He threw it back on the bed and ran to the bathroom, hiding his face. Oh, gods, it was Chris. 

After two minutes that felt more like an eternity of embarassment, Tom walked back to the bedroom, one foot in front of the other, slowly. He took in a deep breath and opened the message, which contained a single word: 'Tom?' 

Tom cringed. He sat back on the bed and spent another whole minute trying to decide what to say, which ended up being an intelligent: 'Hi' 

He leaned back on the bed and waited until his phone buzzed again, snatching it quickly. 'hey,' it said, 'I'd been expecting ur call” 

Tom bit his lip excitedly. Oh, lord, he was talking to Chris! 'Sorry', he answered, regretting it after having sent it. Chris probably saw no problem with it, and sent a happy face along with the words. 'no problem, r u ok?' 

Tom giggled, Chris was asking if he was okay, he was worried because Tom had ended the call. He answered with a 'yes and you?' 

'ok too' was Chris' answer, followed by a quick, 'couldn't sleep?' 

'no' 

'me neither' was Chris' last answer before a four minute pause, Tom not being able to decide what else to say and Chris probably waiting for his response. Tom was about to send a little sad face in sympathy for Chris' lack of sleep when another message from him made his phone buzz on his hand, Tom startling and seeing a 'couldn't stop thinking about u' 

Tom chuckled and hugged the phone, feeling like a ridiculous teenage girl. He was blushing, dammit! And he wasn't even seeing Chris. His phone buzzed again, 'family problem too' the new message said. 

'oh sorry about that' Tom decided to send. 

'it's ok' 

Tom gulped. What to say? He had a lot of emotions but nothing he felt like sharing. In fact, this whole thing with Chris was very much like that, deep but shallow, their conversation topics were very limited unless one of them had the courage to breach the deeper part of it. Tom was too shy to even think about it, and Chris was probably too worried about his family problem. Which... was a topic they could explore. 'had some in the past too' Tom sent, hoping Chris would understand that he was referring to the family problem. 

'yeah sucks, can't meet the family for the holidays, mom cried' 

Oh. The message had Tom pausing. Oh, that really sucked. He felt like an intruder now, seeing this admittedly ugly part of Chris' life and feeling really sorry for him. He didn't know what to say or even what was proper to say to someone on these situation, but typed 'that's terrible, I'm really sorry'. 

'it's ok. Family is all together in Australia and I can't go, have a fight after new year' 

Tom wasn't accostumed to people mentioning fights so casually and took a moment to understand the context and remember fighting was actually Chris' job. Thinking about it now, having to punch someone after just celebrating with your family seemed very untoward, not festive at all. On a whim, Tom answered 'oh, that's violent' feeling like an idiot until Chris' next answer came, full of laughing faces. Tom smiled quietly, watching as a new message appeared, 'sorry bb'. 

Tom gasped, heart blooming. Chris called him baby. He giggled and hid his face under the duvet, bringing the phone with him. Tom sent a blushing little face to which Chris responded with a winking one. Tom laughed and shook his head, his little world now just the light of his phone, blinding around the covered darkness. 'you're such a charmer', he sent. 

'for u, always'. Tom rolled his eyes and bit his lip, Chris' answer just serving to support his previous message. How did he do it so easily? 'can I ask u something?', read a new message. 

'yep' 

'y didn't u call me?' 

The question blinked at Tom innocently and he sighed and decided to go with the truth. 'I did but nerves got to me' 

Chris' next answer took some time, which Tom spent wiggling his leg restlessly. 'no need to b nervous bb' 

'sorry' 

'no need to apologize either', Chris sent along with a little smiley face. 

Tom hummed, really thinking about calling Chris. Tom bet his voice would sound much deeper than it did the last time they met – which was also the first. 

'u still in london?', Chris asked. 

'yes, in a hotel until I buy myself a place', Tom replied. Of course his mother still insisted that he lived with her and the girls but Tom had decided that it just wouldn't do, and the strangest thing was to realise that his decision was born out of a very selfless reason. Tom had a crazy schedule, had to fly to fashion weeks and whatnots in several places, he was usually exhausted when he got the time to stop in London, most of the time catching too early or too late flights; Luke always had to keep in touch with him because he was always being bombarded by a different publicity, and after a few weeks he realised he didn't want to expose his family to that. His mother was getting old and so were his sisters, his crazy life would just disturb their peace. 

'I'm still here too' Chris answered, and even if it was a very innocent message Tom paused. It was clear where this was going, they weren't just friends discussing casualties during the night, dammit! They were talking for a reason and Chris' statement had this reason almost climbing out of the phone to slap Tom in the face. Are you in London? Nice, I'm here too, what a coincidence. 

Where to go from here? Tom thought. Chris was obviously letting the decision in his hands, otherwise he wouldn't have given him his phone number and not called back when Tom hung up. It was a dangerous game for several reasons, but it was also a game Tom wanted to play. 

It's just sex, the little voice in his mind told him, words that rang true and calmed but also saddened him. 

Tom scratched his forehead under the duvet. Did he want this? Yes. Then do it, Emma's voice sounded in his head. Tom took in a deep breath for courage and typed 'nice', along with a winking face so Chris wouldn't see past his inner motives. 

It took some time for Chris' answer to come but when it did, Tom gasped. 'can I call u now?', it asked. Tom's heart thudded inside his chest and before he could think he had already said yes. 

His phone rang. 

Tom looked at it as if it was a beast alive. Chris' name shone in the caller id and three deep breaths were necessary for Tom to finally hit the answer button. 

“Hey,” Chris' voice greeted him, and Tom had been right to assume it would be deeper on the phone line. 

“Hi,” Tom replied, lifting the duvet off and out of his face in case his voice came out too muffled. His lips were stretched in a nervous smile, which was ridiculous, Chris couldn't see him. 

Chris gave a short laugh that resounded honey-like in Tom's ears, he could almost feel the rumble Chris' chest made. “Listen, baby,” He began, “I'm sorry if I was a little too... erm- ” 

“Intense.” Tom supplied, leaning back on the headboard and casting a longing look out at the window, city lights outside. 

Chris laughed again. “Yeah. You know, sorry if you thought it was too intrusive.” 

Tom was shaking his head before Chris had even finished the sentence. “No, it's okay. I-” He sighed faintly. “You weren't intrusive, I- I quite liked it.” 

“Oh, baby.” Chris breathed, Tom's heart speeding. “That's good, that's very good.” He purred and Tom could do nothing but giggle, looking down to play with a stray thread out of the duvet. Chris' voice on his ear, so close, did little things to him, that had him nervous and aroused and giddy and strangely embarrassed all at once. Tom didn't dare imagine what his actual voice whispering in his ear might do to him, if they were close to one another, Chris' lips calling him baby, his warm breath on fanning his neck and earlobe. 

Tom shuddered, catching his breathing. “Are you there?” Chris asked, sounding a little bit worried. 

“Yes, sorry, just- uh-” Tom stammered. 

“Nervous?” Chris asked goodnaturedly. 

“Yeah,” he giggled. “Sorry.” He added. 

“Oh, baby,” Chris cooed. “You don't need to be nervous around me, okay? I mean, I don't give you any reason to be nervous, right? I won't do anything you don't want to.” 

“Yes, I know, it's just...” Tom shrugged. “It's the way I am.” 

Chris stayed silent for a while before saying. “I don't mind, baby, I find it endearing. You're so abnormally cute I just want to-” He groaned, interrupting his own sentence, Tom smiling shyly, for he had an idea Chris would say something... well, appropriate for the time. “Baby, I don't want to rush you into anything, but I might not be in town for long and I've been dying to see you again. Are you free this saturday?” 

Tom bit his bottom lip, which by now was already red. His heart raced inside his chest and he tried to focus in thinking if he had anything to do this saturday. Ugh, Luke was the one that knew his agenda backwards. “Uhm-” he mumbled. There really wasn't a way for him to check his agenda right now, and he didn't want to stall or Chris would think him too immature for not knowing his own schedule. But they were close to Christmas anyway and events tended to be scarce at this time of the year. So he went with his guts and said after a brief laugh. “Yes, I am, well, at least I think I am. Free. This saturday.” He finished. 

Chris hummed. “Interesting. Because, you know, I was thinking about maybe going to this nice restaurant close to my hotel, and I don't know, I think I'd feel too lonely, but you say you're free, so...” He trailed off. “Tom, would you to me the honor of being my date this Saturday?” 

Tom laughed. "Yes, I mean," He pressed his lips together, "Of course." 

"Great." Chris murmured. "I'll send you a car, where are you staying at?" 

Tom managed to blurt out the name of his hotel. "Perfect, baby. I trust I'll see you this saturday then?" 

"Yes," Tom giggled. "Yes, you will."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be way longer, as all the other fics here, but nothing really happens, it's just worldbuilding. Still, this would contain underage sex and extra-marital affairs (as in Chris and Tom doing the cheating).

She had called on a Tuesday. 

Tom’s mother had answered the phone while he had been slumped over the sofa, reading an old copy of a book borrowed from the school’s library. Intrigued, Tom had accepted the phone handed to him, paying his mother a curious eye before jumping on his feet when the woman introduced herself. 

“Debby is such a sweet child, I’m sure you’ll have no problem handling her, but neither me nor my husband can watch her in the evenings.” She had said, her voice melodic and breathy, giving Tom the image of one of those tiny business women, rushing from one place to another with red cheeks. 

At the age of seventeen, it was important for Tom to begin saving up some money. Sharing the idea with his mother last week had given him the encouragement he needed. As always supportive, his mother had spread the news that her son was available to work as a nanny, even calling her old friends, vain and rich women that she used to hang around with before the divorce excluded her from that layer of society and introduced her to the life of a single mother with three children. 

Apparently, her efforts were rewarded, and Tom quickly nodded along to the woman’s words on the phone. “Right,” she had said, sounding pleased. “Could you start tomorrow? I can show you everything around. Is 6 fine for you?” 

“Yes, it’s perfect.” Tom replied, mirroring his mother’s excited look. “Thank you.” He finished, hanging up the phone and staring at his mother in wonderment. “She wants me.” He said, still astonished with the idea, accepting his mother’s warm hug and excited shrieks. 

 

~*~ 

 

The house was in the next street, its proximity an advantage that Tom counted as a good sign. The couple was new on the neighbourhood because no one knew much about their lives. Yet. They had moved in only two months ago, if Tom remembered correctly, having heard some talk that the great house that had spent so much time empty had been finally bought. 

Wearing jeans and a grey top under a loose flannel shirt, Tom walked serenely down the sidewalk. Already he could see the house’ shape, horizontal and long, with a large path leading to its front door and a spacious lawn, though it could use some colour other than the splash of green of the low grass. Wiping his hands down his thighs and breathing shortly for courage, Tom pressed the door bell and waited patiently, amazed at the stark silence that emanated from everything around. On any other situation Tom would’ve felt pressured to turn on his heels and make his way back, the house dark and eerie enough to scare him away, looking fit to star in a thriller. 

His uneasiness was cut short when the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman, Tom not confusing her as the house’s mistress because of the telling maid uniform she wore.  
“Hello, you must be the nanny.” She said, smiling in a friendly fashion that albeit inviting, was quick enough to lack any warmth. 

Tom put on a smile. “Yes, that’s me.” 

The maid nodded, widening the door to allow him passage. She led him into a dark living room, with slim sofas surrounding a glass coffee table, a plasma TV hanging on the wall. In the far corner, leather armchairs faced a fireplace. The whole house had a modern décor, with black tiles, dark wood floors and high ceilings, lacking sentimentality and any item delating life. 

Tom took a look at the walls, surprisingly devoid of any family photographs; the air was cold and sterile, and when Tom looked for any forgotten toys or any sign of a child living in that space, he found none. 

The windows barely let any light in, everything furnished to allow the fulfilment of any basic need with the least eye-tiring furniture. It looked like a personal architected house – and perhaps it was -, like those out of catalogues, perfected to lonely magnates with heavy pockets and a dislike for the social. 

Tom felt out of place. 

“Oh, you must be Thomas.” A voice called from behind him, the same he had heard at the other end of the telephone. Tom turned around, not the least bit impressed to realize that he had been right in his assumptions. 

His employer was exactly like he had imagined her to be, tiny and suave. She wore an elegant navy blue dress and high heels that made Tom sorry for her column. Her features were petit and her skin, clear and smooth, contrasting with her dark brown hair and eyes; a woman accustomed with a life of getting what she wanted easily, which didn’t necessarily made her a bad person, the evidence notable in the small, but genuine smile she flashed him. 

“Yes,” Tom confirmed, walking to her and extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs H-“ 

“Oh, I still use my maiden name. Jones, please.” She corrected good-naturedly. Tom cringed, afraid he had committed a faux pas, but she quickly took his outstretched hand in both of hers. “No problem, darling, it’s just a whim.” She said, laughing lightly. 

Tom nodded, blushing and giving a step back, eyeing the maid quickly, who stood impassively to the side. 

“I see you’ve met Eunice.” Mrs Jones said, hurriedly putting on a thin wrist watch. 

“Oh, yes.” Tom replied, assuming Eunice was the maid. 

“Nice.” Mrs Jones continued. “I told her to stay for a while longer to show you the kitchen’s workings. Eunice normally leaves at 5, so she won’t be here when you arrive, which means you and Debby can find dinner in the fridge but you’ll have to heat it. In case you feel like eating anything else, you’re free to make yourself at home, darling.” She said all this while rummaging through her purse, sending Tom quick glances to make sure that he was following. “Debby should be- oh, there she is! Honey, come here, come here.” 

A small girl appeared, having just turned a hallway that seemed to lead to a high set of stairs. Debby was 7 years old, with dark blue eyes and light brown hair, which she seemed to have braided incorrectly. She wore a pink loose shirt that almost reached her knees, along with blue cotton pants that seemed to have gone through too many washings. 

She looked startled when her mother called and went to stand next to her before seeing Tom, at which point she looked down shyly and clung to her mother’s leg. 

“Honey, this is Tom, and he’ll be taking care of you while mom and dad are away.” She said, voice soft. Debby nodded quietly, giving Tom a quick glance before looking down again. 

“Hi, Debby!” Tom greeted, waving. 

Debby gave a small wave back before smiling shyly, her toes wringing inside her socks. She was adorable, and Tom was glad that the child didn't appear to be whinny or a brat like he had feared. 

Mrs Jones smiled before going back to her things, putting on a pair of earrings as she continued to instruct Tom. “Debby usually sleeps very early so if by the time she goes to bed if neither me nor my husband have arrived you can do whatever you please, watch TV, roam the fridge, read in the library…” 

“There’s a library?” Tom asked before he could stop himself. 

Mrs Jones laughed, amused. “Yes, there is. I’ll trust Eunice to show you around the house now, and if you have any other questions you can ask Debby. I’ll give you my number too in case there’s an emergency or you have any more doubts.” She quickly searched her purse, retrieving a square card and handing it to Tom. In it, Olivia Marie Jones was written in cursive, above the words Litigation lawyer, her email and phone numbers at the bottom. 

“That’s great, thank you.” Tom said, Mrs Jones applying a clear lipstick while Tom pocketed the card, clicking her beauty case shut before turning to Tom. “I’m so excited I finally found someone, thank you so much, Tom” She said, squeezing his arm in excitement and smiling, her teeth perfectly pearly and aligned. “Come now; follow me out so we can arrange the details.” She whispered, tugging him along as she made her way to the door. Tom was glad she had the decency to not discuss his salary in front of Eunice, who cast them curious looks that were long enough not to be random. 

“Forgive my ignorance, Tom, but I have no idea how much people pay for a nanny.” Mrs Jones told him, her heels clicking as they descended the long hallway that led to the front door. “But seeing as I’ll need your assistance every day, I was thinking perhaps eighty would be fine?” Tom gaped, unsure. “Per hour.” She finished, adjusting the strap of her purse before turning to him questioningly. 

Tom almost choked on his saliva. Mrs Jones said she usually didn’t arrive earlier than 10 pm. That made four hours a day, if not more. He could make approximately four hundred a day. If he stayed with Debby for five days a week, he would get two thousand a week. That’d be more than his mother made. He’d be positively rich! The woman wasn’t lying when she said she had no idea how much a nanny made. Rich people… She could surely spare that money with no dent to her finances because she had no notion of how much was too much. 

But Tom, being a good soul, couldn’t agree to that. It’d be akin to taking money out of a child, even if that child gave it willingly, but stupidly. “Oh, no, Mrs Jones! That’s too much. Eighty a day is perfect for me.” He said, insisting when she frowned and offered more. 

“Well, if that’s what you’d like.” She shrugged, smiling and settling for the eighty a day. They were standing at the door now, but Mrs Jones’ smile faltered a bit and she clasped his forearm gently to pull him closer. “Listen, Tom. About my husband, he’s a very busy man. He arrives later than I do, but don’t be surprised if he shows up early one day. He tends to do that when he’s in a bad mood.” She rolled her eyes, and Tom nodded quickly. “But when he’s home, don’t bother him.” She said seriously, the grip on his arm tightening, eyes set on him, no trace of a smile left. “Please.” She added, to assuage her words that had perhaps scared Tom to the point of showing. “He’ll stay in his study; Eunice will show you where it is. I ask you to be very careful and avoid the second floor when he’s in; if there’s something you may need in it, ask Debby to go there and take it. Don’t talk to him, and if he sees you, just answer him if he makes a question. Okay? If you need anything, talk to me, but don’t approach him. Is that clear?” 

Tom gulped and was quick to answer with a meek “Yes.” He remembered when he was a kid and had splashed red paint all over a drawing from a girl in his class, laughing quietly when she screeched. His teacher had come over to him, and with a face just like Mrs Jones’ right now, had told him in very simple words that he couldn’t do that. In both occasions, neither had said something to threaten him in any way, but their faces were everything, the way they spoke, leaving no room for him to question, eyes hard. It made Tom internally shrink in fear. 

But Mrs Jones was seemingly happy that he had understood, and nodded once before opening the door to leave. “Thank you again, Tom.” She added, smiling good-naturedly. “I’ll pay you once I get home, and remember: if you need anything, call me.” 

 

~*~ 

 

“Eighty an hour?” Sarah screeched from her place at the floor. 

They were all sat around the coffee table, eating Chinese take-out because no one felt like cooking. Tom’s fingers couldn’t hold the chopsticks properly, and he threw them at the table before taking the fork his mother had left over it, probably already knowing that he wouldn’t be able to eat without it. 

“She’s crazy.” Emma mumbled around her mouthful. 

“She’s not.” Tom defended. “She just has no notion of how much money to spend; she doesn’t know its value or the amount of it that is truly necessary to live.” Sarah rolled her eyes, and Tom shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t accept it. I said eighty was good for the whole day.” 

Sarah groaned, almost personally offended. “You did what? Why didn’t you accept it? They are rich, Tom!” 

“Yes, but-“ Tom sighed, stabbing the noodles that threatened to escape the expertise rolling of his fork. “I’d feel like I was taking advantage of them. And the kid is nice, she barely speaks, it’s not worth eighty an hour.” 

His sisters exchanged looks but gave no opinion, and his mother clapped a hand around his shoulder, smiling proudly at him. “You did the right thing, Tom.” 

Tom smirked crookedly, embarrassed, and stared down at his food. “Thanks, mom.” 

“Oh, the house! Tell us about the house. How is it?” Sarah asked excitedly, her eyes glistening with curiosity. 

Even his mother paused on her chewing and stared at him with interest, and Tom swallowed, grinning bashfully. “Well, you know…” He took a sip out of his orange juice to prolong their agony, staring off into the distance in contemplation. “Every wood surface is mahogany, their kitchen is made out of black granite; they have this marble fireplace and you know those armchairs that can do massages?” Emma gasped and Tom nodded. “Their library is to die for, and there’s this sleek, black piano that I want to play but can’t make myself touch it.” 

“Do they have a pool?” Their mother pipped in, asking on a low voice as though they were sharing secret information. 

Tom grinned as if he had been just waiting for that question. “An in-doors one.” They all gasped. “Eunice didn’t show it but Debby told me. She said we could use it someday and I could teach her how to swim.” 

“Wow.” Emma whispered, staring at him in amazement. “Can you invite me over?” 

Tom laughed. “I don’t know. But she said I’m allowed free reign of everything. TV, Wi-Fi, Blu-Ray, the library, the kitchen, the terrace…” He felt somewhat guilty for enumerating their items like that, but it’s not as if it was a state secret. 

“God.” Sarah breathed. “That’s a dream job.” 

 

~*~ 

 

Tom fell into a routine quickly. He would leave school sometime after noon and take the bus home, where he would flop belly down on his bed and read, doing the required homework here and there and chasing migraines down before his Calculus tests. He would grab a snack by four thirty and consider doing something else: taking his mother’s car to wash, doing groceries, going for a run at the park, bothering Emma and/or Sarah and looking for plays online, wishing he could go to one and see the theatre since his mother had never allowed him to. 

Ten minutes before 6 o’clock he would leave for Debby’s house, Mrs Jones opening the door happily, eyes glowing when seeing him, being finally able to leave. She usually did so in a rush, sparing him the most basic of greetings before her car was off the drive. Tom had never asked because he did not want to prod like a nosy elder, but he had always been curious as to what was so important that demanded her evening time every day. According to Eunice, Mrs Jones worked during the mornings and arrived just before Eunice herself had to go. 

At first, Tom had been surprised with her lack of care for Debby. He still wasn’t over it, and probably never would be, but now he had learned to brush it away, at least only not to bother himself with something he had no say over and that sadly, wouldn’t change. 

He wondered about Debby’s father. Even though Mrs Jones had warned him that it wasn’t uncommon for him to arrive before her, Tom still hadn’t seen, heard, or even caught a proof of the man’s existence. The main bedroom was forbidden territory to him, just like the study and a good portion of the second floor, excluding Debby’s bedroom, where he would take her when she began to scratch her eyes in sleepiness. 

Debby was an extremely quiet child. 

He feared it was because of her parents. With their busy lives, they probably never gave her the time of day, their schedules never meeting and leaving her at the care of hired servants, who even though treated her well, were complete strangers. Another thing that bothered Tom was how Mrs Jones had hired him without even knowing anything about him. And he was a boy! Of course he wasn’t ill intentioned, but how could she be so sure of it to the point of leaving her 7-year old daughter alone with him, unsupervised? Tom would never be so careless to a child of his. 

But even with all these problems, he was glad he had taken the job. Tom gave the largest, prettiest smile when he felt that tiny hope that Debby was finally opening up to him. She liked to watch TV, but they had once spent five hours watching it and never interacted. Tom, being his talkative self, had almost gone mad. On the next day, he had brought a board game along with him, and slowly had encouraged Debby to play it, collecting her crooked-teeth smile as the sweetest reward. 

Today, Tom brought a Barbie game he had found while wandering the mall with his mother. She had smiled proudly at him when he had paid for it – on cash -, knowing he would give it to Debby. 

“This is so pretty.” Debby murmured, holding out one of the game’s card, staring down at it in wonder. 

The game was fairly stupid, four female card mannequins came along with a variety of clothes and accessories that you dressed them with in different combinations, but Debby seemed to have liked it quite a lot and Tom was having fun. 

The card Debby had in her hands was of a blonde wig, hair braided to the side. Tom remembered their first meeting, and how Debby seemingly always walked around with what looked like an attempt of a braid. 

“Do you want to try it?” He asked. 

“How?” Debby laughed, lifting the card and supporting it atop her own head. “Like this?” She giggled. 

Tom couldn’t stop his own laugh. “No, silly. Like, if I did one of these in your hair?” He said, pointing at the braid. 

Debby paused and stared at him with huge eyes. “Do you know how?” 

Tom shrugged. “Sure.” He had watched countless times as Sarah’s fingers moved to braid her own hair, and later, when Emma grew up, Tom had always took it upon himself to do these things for her, their parent’s marriage already taking a turn for the worse and leaving his mother too stressed to care for these things. 

"Okay." Debby said, though her excitement was apparent. She quickly gave Tom her back, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. 

"I'll need a comb and a ribbon." Tom declared, standing up when Debby pointed at her dressing table with a small index finger. "Over there." 

Tom got all the accessories he needed from her pink dressing table, taking a quick look out the window when the headlights of an approaching car illuminated their end of the street. Frowning, Tom's heart jumped when a sleek black Mercedes turned to their garage, the security gate soundlessly opening to let the car in. 

That wasn't Mrs Jones' car. 

So that could only mean one thing: the husband. 

Tom had formed images on his mind concerning Mr Hemsworth's appearances. He had first imagined him as one of those rich old fellows that married women young enough to be their granddaughters, but Mrs Jones looked like an accomplished and serious woman, not one to marry for financial support. That left him with the image of a man approximately Mrs Jones' own age, with a low brow and thin lips, a pointy nose and a snobbish, derisive sneer, who'd probably look Tom down with a superior posture and run him over with questions coated in barely-hidden disdain. Tom knew the type, had crossed ways more than once with men who behaved like that, men like his father's friends. 

He went back to Debby, mirroring her posture and sitting cross-legged behind her. The girl didn't look fazed with the sound of the front door opening downstairs, and kept her head steady when Tom began to comb the straight locks of her hair. 

Tom's heart rate sped up when the unmistakeable sound of heavy footsteps echoed inside the house, rhythmically climbing up the stairs. He remembered Mrs Jones' orders to keep his distance when her husband was home, even more so because according to her he only arrived early when he was in a bad mood. 

The sound of footsteps increased until Tom was holding his breath, face blank in alarm as he valiantly began to separate Debby's locks of hair. He was dying to ask her a million questions about her father but kept his lips firmly locked, afraid to utter the smallest noise and attract the man's wrath. 

When Tom was starting to braid Debby's hair, the footsteps were so loud that he thought the man was already inside the room, and took a quick peek at the door's bottom slit, where surely enough, twin black shadows were visible as the house's owner went by Debby's room without a second thought. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, Tom listened as the sound diminished, hearing as a door was opened (probably his study) and shut. Tom swallowed, and when he was done with Debby's braid, tied the ribbon at its bottom and smiled. 

"There you go." He rested the braid on the girl's shoulder, and fetched the small mirror he had found among her stuff for her to see his work. 

Debby gasped, catching the mirror's frame with both hands. Her reflection stared back at her, the girl blinking in amazement. 

"Did you like it?" Tom asked, watching his own smiling face over Debby's shoulder. 

Debby turned to face him, mouth slack, staring at Tom with a fond emotion in her eyes. "I love it." She mumbled, hugging his head. "Thank you, Tom." 

 

~*~ 

 

Tom hadn't had the opportunity to ask Debby about her father until the next week arrived. It wasn't so much for his distraction as Debby's quietness also contributed. But on Tuesday they were sat at the sofa in the living room, the girl showing him the brand new cell phone her mother had bought her during the weekend, the latest model that had to cost at least the quintuple of Tom's. 

Debby had already created two accounts on different social networks, and Tom considered the possibility of asking Mrs Jones if she was aware of that, or if she thought that it was safe or appropriate for a 7 year old girl. Tom himself was far from being a complete ignorant internet-wisely but he knew, and had already met, some proper creeps in it, perhaps just waiting for their chance to ensnare an innocent 7 year old who had been exposed too soon. Tom befriended Debby on both platforms to keep an eye out on her. 

"It has a camera." Debby told him, tapping the screen with a greasy finger to open her camera app, handing Tom the phone so he could take a selfie of them, both staring at the camera with giant smiles, Debby's head inclined to fit in the frame. Tom published the photo on both her profiles, logging in to like the photo himself. At least now anyone could see that there was an older presence with her. 

Debby opened her gallery to show the photos she had taken during the weekend: a tremulous one that had only managed to capture her own feet, her bedroom, her breakfast and another where Mrs Jones smiled at the camera beside her, teeth pearly white and eyes obscured by a huge sunglass that made her look like a fly. Tom chuckled at his inner comparison. 

"Is there none with your father?" He asked, on the hopes that he'd finally see Mr Hemsworth's mysterious face. 

Debby frowned, as if the concept of taking a photo with her father was too foreign for her to understand. She quietly shook her head. "My mother said my father lives in Austria." She answered, swiping a finger over her cell phone's screen distractedly. Tom cringed at the way she called them 'my mother' and 'my father', and not 'mom' and 'dad', as though they were entities, altogether detached from her life. 

Austria? "But-" Tom hesitated, vaguely lifting a finger to indicate the second floor. "That man that comes here at night, who is he?" He asked, eyes fixed on Debby, feeling tangled in a plot twist he definitely hadn't been waiting for. 

"That's Chris." Debby replied, looking through the choices on wallpapers that came automatically in the cell phone. 

"Oh." Tom mumbled. "And Chris, is he not your father?" 

Debby shook her head. "He's my mother's husband." 

"I see." Tom murmured. It was actually understandable. 

This Chris' guy absence in Debby's life couldn't very well be forgiven just because he wasn't her biological father, and it pained Tom to know that both men who had the ability to be and do something for her were or in Austria or too busy to care. He could relate. Tom's father had never been a very paternal figure neither for him nor for his sisters.  
"I need to show you this game, Tom." Debby interrupted his thoughts, opening a game app excitedly and practically shoving its loading page on his face. "It's so good." She said, and Tom was surprised to notice that, differently from him, these subjects didn't bother her. Perhaps she was already used to it. 

 

~*~ 

 

Tom did surprisingly well on his Calculus test, staring at his grade in utter befuddlement. Some of his classmates patted his back in congratulations, and Tom could do nothing but smile distractedly. It brightened his day, even more so because he had spent the last two days dying in apprehension. 

He had been washing the dishes in his house, earphones on while he danced away when the phone rang. Sighing, Tom paused his music and went to answer it, surprised to hear Mrs Jones' voice. 

"Hi, sweetie," she said, voice melodic but lacking her usual cheer. "Listen, me and my husband are taking Debby out tonight so you can have a day off." 

"Oh." Tom moaned. He had been counting on today's money to buy his mother's birthday present tomorrow. "It's alright." 

Mrs Jones hummed. "Yes, Debby's super excited." She said, not sounding excited herself, though she tried to hide it. "Well, that's all. Thank you, darling, enjoy your day." And before Tom could say his own farewells, she hung up. Sighing, the boy put the telephone back, returning to his unwashed dishes. 

He had stopped trying to understand these particulars a long time ago, first of all because it was none of his business, and secondly because there was nothing he could do to make it better. Their family dynamics were their problem alone, but sometimes, mostly when it affected Debby, Tom chewed on his bottom lip and wondered. 

 

~*~ 

 

The next day, Tom showed up on their doorstep as usual, ringing the doorbell even though Mrs Jones had told him he let himself in whenever he arrived. Expecting to hear this once more, Tom was surprised when Debby opened the door, taking a look at him and going back inside, leaving Tom to enter and close the door himself. Confused, Tom followed the girls' steps into the living room, eyes scanning the place after Mrs Jones. 

"Hello, Debby." He said, seeing as the girl hadn't greeted him. Debby answered with a quiet murmur he couldn't comprehend, her back to him as she sat at the sofa and continued watching her cartoons. "Hm, where's your mother?" Tom asked, going around to sit next to her. 

"She's out." 

Mrs Jones always waited until Tom was here to go out and the boy once more fumed for realizing she had left her daughter alone in a large, empty house, with the door unlocked nonetheless. Sighing, he sank next to Debby, pulling one of the cushions onto his lap. 

"Did she tell you why she was leaving earlier?" He asked, when the cartoon animation tired him out. 

Debby shook her head. "She and Chris fought last night." she said, Tom's head whipping to look at her, the girl watching TV serenely. 

"Ah." Tom mumbled, not having expected that. "Well, that's- That's bad." Gulping, he turned his eyes back to the telly. Perhaps Mrs Jones was in a bad mood because of their fight and... had left her child alone because of it? Clicking his tongue, Tom lay a gentle hand on Debby's shoulder. 

They watched Jumanji and a while before their dinner time, Tom went to the kitchen. It was a wide place full of gleaming utensils that he suspected were never used. Eunice had prepared some pasta, but it was awfully dry and stiff, so Tom let it cook some more and made a fresh tomato sauce, serving two plates and cutting bits of parsley over it. 

"Tom?" Debby called from the living room. 

"Yes, darling." He cleaned his hands in a kitchen rag, eyeing his dishes pridefully. If it wasn't for the freedom he was allowed here, Tom would never get the opportunity to cook like that. His mother never forbade him from cooking in their house but there was something else in having an entire, top-of-the-notch kitchen at your disposal. 

"What are you cooking? It smells good." The girl praised. Smiling, Tom grabbed both plates and took them to the dining room, where Debby sat in waiting, gasping when he walked in. 

They ate rapidly, smirking around their forks and throwing extra sauce on the pasta. Tom left to do the dishes while Debby went back to the living room, her mood lifted. He arranged everything on its rightful place in the kitchen, though he doubted anyone would notice if he did anything different. Hunger sated, he sat next to Debby as they both watched the television, turning it off when the girl started nodding off. 

"Sleep?" Tom asked, chuckling when Debby mumbled and stood up. He put her to bed, gently closing the door afterwards. 

Now alone in this big house, Tom wondered what to do next. His heart jumped in excitement when he remembered the library, quickly padding to the secluded room. It contained mostly books on law, but Tom quite enjoyed its eerie quietness; besides, there were some novels he felt like giving a try, an old and blue-covered classics collection with unabridged versions. He chose the thinner of them, The Great Theatre of The World, and comfortably sat in a leather armchair to begin his reading. 

Tom had no way of knowing how much time he spent there, but he was finishing the book when the front door opened. Blinking in surprise, he marked his page and stood, putting the book back in place and walking to the living room, where Mrs Jones would give him his payment. 

Thinking about what he would get for his mother as a late birthday present, Tom watched his own feet as he walked, freezing when an unfamiliar, male voice echoed inside the house. Mouth agape, he gave a step back to return to the library and hide himself there, but he already knew it was too late, could only stand in numb stupor and listen as the voice grew louder, its source closer until a tall silhouette came up from the front hall. The man's eyes fell on him as soon as he crossed the threshold, holding a cell phone against his ear while his other hand carried a sleek suitcase. He was blond, his eyes blue and sharp like a cutting knife, chin covered in short bristles that only accentuated his elegance.  
Cheeks flaming, Tom tried to make himself look as small as possible though he knew Mr Hemsworth had already seen him. 

He didn't know if Mrs Jones had told her husband about him, didn't know if he was even aware that his wife had hired a nanny. At the bottom of his heart, Tom had always suspected her secrecy request to have something to do with a desire to hide her evening activities from her husband; but if Mr Hemsworth looked surprised upon seeing him, a complete stranger, in his house late at night, he didn't show it. His face remained impassive, if not a bit more serious, eyes scanning Tom, who could do nothing but press his lips together and look as casual and innocent as possible, frozen on the spot. 

He believed it a trick of the light when Mr Hemsworth raised his suitcase, fingers making a quick beckoning motion around the handle, so he stayed firmly in his place, blinking owlishly. Mr Hemsworth continued talking on his cell phone, but before entering the hallway that led to the stairs, upon feeling that Tom wasn't following him, looked over his shoulder and made a more decisive, clearer motion for him to follow. 

Heart clenching and beating a mile an hour, Tom startled, his feet moving on alarm mode and responding kindly to what could be a threat. He followed Mr Hemsworth upstairs automatically, watching the back of his deep blue suit, made of a soft-looking tissue that barely creased with his movements, glinting under the orange light. 

Finding his mouth dry, Tom swallowed, eyes flitting over every wall and painting as if he had never been here before. 

"I see." Chris said, Tom looking up in alert only to realize he was still on his cell phone. They were heading to his study, Tom could tell, and the soil of his feet tingled as though already knowing he would walk upon forbidden territory. He wondered if Mr Hemsworth had really motioned for him to accompany him, not excluding the possibility of him being mad and perhaps making it up in his mind. The man walking in front of him exuded a deep and masculine perfume that danced along Tom's nostrils and directly affected his nervous system, giving him a somewhat foggy perception of everything and making him shrink with intimidation. 

Finally, Chris opened the door to his study, which wasn't unlike the rest of the house's design. It had its own fireplace, a black leather sofa and dark wood floorboards. A spacious desk occupied the left side of the room, in front of a series of bookcases. It was better illuminated, though, and the air held a slighter diluted version of Chis' perfume, a testament to the time he spent there and his exclusive presence. 

"No, Donald." Chris said, once again startling Tom, who refrained from closing the door entirely, wanting at least a view of freedom through the slit. Chris set his suitcase over the sofa, walking further into the room, back to Tom as he tried to undo his tie with a single hand. "I'm aware of that." He continued, letting out an audible sigh. 

Tom shifted on his feet, glancing at the door and wondering if Chris would notice his absence if he fled. Down the hallway Debby surely slept peacefully in her bed. 

"It changes nothing. My decision still stands." Mr Hemsworth finally got rid of his tie, setting it on the back of his chair distractedly, his wedding ring catching the light. He hummed to the other person in line, head tilting back as he apparently listened to this Donald. He unbuttoned his jacket, shrugging it off and turning around to fold it on the back of his chair, eyes falling on Tom, who instantly looked down. 

Chris wore a blue button-down that followed his muscles' movements as he stepped to the side, an expensive-looking wrist watch ricocheting the light as he poured himself a glass of something kept in a glass bottle. His brows furrowed quickly down at his actions before shaking his head in what seemed to be hard-set contradiction. "Right. Listen, Donald, we'll talk tomorrow." He concluded, swinging his glass before taking a quick sip of his drink, eyes glued on Tom over the rim, lips clipping after a brief "No." before he hung up and set his cell phone down at the coffee table facing the fireplace. 

The silence engulfed them all too quickly, leaving Tom to formulate excuses in his head that could explain his presence. Even though he knew there was nothing wrong with being a nanny hired by Mrs Jones, Chris' hard gaze had him thinking himself in the wrong here. He was, after all, at the man's house. 

Chris eyed him as if he had all the time in the world, watching the nervous fidgeting of his fingers before taking another sip of his drink and walking up to his desk. "Who are you?"  
Tom barely processed the question, pausing for a second longer. Mouth opening and closing, he fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest for protection. "I'm Tom. The nanny." 

"Hm." Chris nodded, setting his glass atop his desk as he went around to sit on his chair, sighing shortly. His eyes flew back to Tom, the corner of his lip quirking as if granting him a calm smile. "Say, Tom..." He continued, swinging his chair lightly as his ankle came to rest atop his other knee. "How long have you been working for Olivia?" 

"Uh-" Tom gulped. "For two months now, perhaps less." 

"Oh." Chris huffed, Tom giving a minimal step back in fear. "Two months, hm?" He asked, his voice heavy with some sort of sarcasm, as if Tom hadn't just said that. Confused, the boy frowned slightly as Chris smiled crookedly, a stretch that complemented his looks. The man glanced up before shaking his head, murmuring what Tom heard as "Olivia never tells me nothing." 

"So, Tom," He began, a hand coming to open one of his desk's drawers. "How old are you?" 

Tom took a little bit longer to answer that, uncomfortable. "Seventeen." 

Chris nodded, head tilted to the side in consideration, hand rummaging through his drawer. Tom swallowed, eyes falling to the movement. He had watched countless movies on where men dug guns from drawers, shooting their interlocutors or just posting it there as a clear threat. Chris, however, took a pen out of his, and Tom tried not to let his relief show. 

Mr Hemsworth chuckled nonetheless, amusedly closing his eyes and shaking his head in reproach of his own manners. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit..." He gestured to his own chest, sighing and just flapping a hand to excuse himself. "Anyway, today's not my best day, sorry." He said, laughing shortly and throwing his shoulders back on his chair. 

His serious posture broke so fast that Tom was left a little lost, but understood that the chances to be shouted at or thrown away were slimmer, and smiled as he was used to. "It's okay." 

Chris took another gulp of his drink, eyes once more falling on Tom and making the boy squirm, his cheeks blossoming with colour. "I'm Chris." He said, extending a hand over his desk and bringing his chair closer with an impulse of his leg. "Christopher Hemsworth, Debby's step-father." He added. 

Tom pretended not to already know that, and politely made a surprised sound while walking on stiff legs, shaking the man's warmer and bigger hand. "Nice to meet you." 

Chris smiled, "You too." 

He had suddenly become so different from the snob and moody man he had looked like before, that Tom imagined he was before. It made him wonder which one was an act, where was the lie hidden. 

"How's Debby doing, Tom?" Chris asked, letting go of his hand to fetch a block of papers atop his desk. 

"She's doing wonderfully." He answered, smiling for emphasis. "She's a very sweet child." 

Chris sighed, looking down at his papers, his lips stretching in a grin as he nodded. "That she is." 

He looked genuinely pleased at the mention of Debby's name, much like a proud father would. Tom could almost physically feel his brain twisting into knots. He's pretending, he thought, but couldn't see the logic in it. As it appeared, Mr Hemsworth would have no advantage over him by making himself look more like a present father for Debby. Even more so because he had to know that Tom knew it was lie, otherwise he wouldn't be here, wouldn't have been hired to feel in the gaps of his absence. 

"How much is Olivia paying you?" 

Startling, Tom resurfaced from his thoughts, blushing in embarrassment once the question settled in. "Uh- Sorry?" 

Chris glanced up at him before scribbling something down at the top of the block of papers, a legal-looking document. "Olivia. How much is she paying you?" 

"Eighty." Tom said, shifting on his feet in discomfort. 

Chris nodded, pressing the end of his pen into the paper before dropping it aside. He rested back against his chair, paying Tom a quick once-over. "And are you satisfied with it?" 

"I think so," he shrugged. "Yes." 

Mr Hemsworth watched him, the intensity of his gaze making Tom blush. He scratched the bristles on his chin before stating, "Great. Welcome to the house, then, Tom." 

 

~*~ 

 

Tom wasn't sure about what to make of Mr Hemsworth. Save for their last encounter that evening, the boy hadn't seen him again, the days unwinding and returning to its normal routine, almost as if it had never happened, a single episode of delirium. 

He had a nightmare with him once. He dreamed that one day he appeared on their doorstep, the front door unlocked and completely open. He would cross the threshold and find nothing but silence inside, the rooms in a disarray, almost as if the house had been ransacked. It got darker and darker until Tom tried to exit but found the door locked. He would turn and hide on the library, watching the shadows of Mr Hemsworth's steps as he stopped right in front of the door, the doorknob turning with a creak before he woke up.  
It meant nothing, but it was creepy and left Tom a little flighty throughout the best part of the morning. 

He didn't tell Mrs Jones a thing, though. He knew He knew he should, but something made him step back every time he built up the courage to do it. Besides, their encounters were always so short, the woman hurrying out the door by the time she saw him crossing the street. 

Today he had brought his homework along with him, twirling a curl on his finger and tapping the end of his pen against the paper as Debby played on her cell phone. Tom huffed, erasing his answer again as he tried to point out where he had gone wrong with that problem. 

"What is that?" Debby asked, propping her chin on his shoulder as her eyes scanned the page, brows pinching. 

Tom chuckled, "My homework." 

The girl hummed. "It looks easy," she joked, grinning smartly up at him. 

"Oh, is that so?" Tom prompted, "Why don't you do it for me then?" 

Debby giggled, flopping back down on the sofa and returning to her game. The clock ticked and Tom scratched his head, glancing up at it to check the hours. Debby stood to go to the bathroom and as he sat and wrote an answer at the bottom of the paper, the phone rang. 

Tom wasn't a fan of answering their phone, Debby always answered it for him but seeing as the girl was in the bathroom he had no other choice than to reach for it, clearing his throat before trying on his softest voice, "Uh, Hemsworth's residence, good night." He cringed at his own words. Smooth, Tom. 

"Tom?" He was surprised to recognize Mr Hemsworth's voice. 

"Oh, yes, Mr Hemsworth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Don't remember where exactly I was headed with this, but yes, at some point Tom developed a crush on Chris and they had sex. The wife was kind of a bitch all along - she cheated on Chris and did some illegal things behind his back, something work related that I don't remember. (Btw, the Jones is from that music 'me and mrs jones' that michael buble sings in the radio for me sometimes - it seemed fitting 'cos it's abt an extra-marital affair).  
> \- In the end they divorced, Tom and Chris started dating and Tom went to college. Chris got the girl's guard though, and they raised her together. (normally I don't think this would happen but he's a judge so he made things happen).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Chris is a tennis player and Tom is his hot boyfriend that watches his every match. But of course it's not always that simple. 
> 
> This is one hundred percent self-indulgent: Tom is not the nicest person ever and Chris is a cinnamon roll.

"They love you." Chris states, smiling to himself as he flicks his cell phone's screen for Tom to see. 

His boyfriend takes one look at it and huffs, shaking his head and watching the walking queue ahead. They were headed to Italy now, where Chris would face his next rival in the championship. They stood waiting to have their tickets checked, Tom anxious to get into the airplane and away from all these people around them, their curious gazes feeling heavy and disturbing on him. Three people had already approached to ask Chris for autographs and selfies, and Tom found out he really hated to have their privacy intruded upon like that. 

"At least they got you in a nice angle." Chris chuckled, pocketing his cell phone when they reached the attendant. "Good afternoon," he smiled, handing his ticket to the woman, whose eyes glowed up at him, her lips stretching in an overly-kind smile. 

"Good afternoon, sir." The attendant greeted, checking his ticket quickly and handing it back to him. "Here. It's an honor to have you flying with us, sir." She said, her cheeks red, and Tom had a feeling her makeup wasn't entirely to blame for it. 

Tom doubted she treated any of the other passengers as gently as that, lips pursing when he felt that familiar, bitter pull of jealousy. Chris nodded and thanked her, Tom tapping a foot against the granite floor of the airport. His boyfriend was always so smitten with everyone that Tom wouldn't be surprised if most of the people he met got second thoughts about his behavior, even if Tom was standing right there. And there was no way they didn't know who he was, for the press was obsessed with him, never missing an opportunity to snap photos of Tom amidst the crowd while he watched Chris' matches. 

He handed the attendant his ticket less gracefully than usual, keeping his lips clipped when Chris glanced up at him, flashing an amused smirk. He found Tom's moody attitude when jealous absolutely delicious. 

The attendant kept her eyes low, checking his ticket efficiently and giving it back, squirming embarrassedly. She must've felt Tom's murderous vibe. 

They made their way into the channel connected to the airplane, Tom lacing their fingers together and staring firmly ahead, grasping his handbag's handle tightly. Chris waited until they were a little farther inside to let out a great booming laugh, throwing his head back. 

Tom remained silent, gritting his teeth. His boyfriend continued laughing but finished after shooting him a fond look. Tom fought the instinct to smile, and with a petulant shrug of a shoulder, flicked his eyes to him through the lenses of his sunglasses. "What?" 

Chris tugged him closer by the lock of their hands, leaning to whisper in his ear. "You do realize you're really bitchy, don't you?" 

Tom smirked cockly, leaning away. "Shut up." 

They quickly found their seats, which wasn't difficult since they always flew first class. Tom blessedly rested against the tall seat, putting his sunglasses away while Chris stored his handbag on the compartment above them. 

It didn't take long before they were already flying, the pilot's despondent voice telling them all about their altitude and the temperature outside. Tom rolled his eyes, not understanding why it was so important to tell him he could freeze to death if he was out of the airplane when he was not out of the airplane. 

Blinking, he looked away from the glare of the sun that was hitting his face straight on. He should've given Chris the window seat. His boyfriend seemed to notice his faze, winking at him before a flight attendant came up to them. Tom asked for some water, undoing the first buttons of his white dress shirt when the sun's direct heat became too much. He looked out the window, at the clear blue sky they were flying on, at the white mat of fluffy clouds beneath. He felt Chris' hand on his elbow and turned to face him. 

"Are you mad?" his boyfriend asked softly, brows slightly lowered in worry, watching Tom's face, the tiny sprouts of sweat on his forehead, the yellow stripe of light that hit his face. 

"No." Tom frowned, shifting closer to him. "Why would you think that?" 

Chris watched him for some time, a vague smile on. He shook his head, clasping Tom's right hand with his left and planting a kiss on his knuckles. His boyfriend smiled at the gesture, his eyelids falling in intimate comfort. He wanted to ask Chris what was bothering him but before he could his boyfriend was already speaking. "Sorry about the photos." he murmured, looking into his eyes. "I know it exposes you, and it's my fault." 

"Chris," Tom replied quietly. "I don't mind." Chris didn't look like he believed him, at least not entirely. Tom waited a beat and decided to add, smirking slowly. "I quite like it," he declared, Chris' eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "That way everyone knows you belong to me." 

Chris laughed, pecking Tom's cheek. "Oh, now I belong to you?" 

Tom made an arrogant little sound in the back of his throat, sparing Chris a cheeky glance. "You know you do." 

Chris laughed, his chest rumbling with it. Tom smiled in victory, ignoring the curious glances thrown their way by the other passengers. The flight attendant came back with his water, eyes going from him to Chris before smiling kindly and leaving. 

Tom flicked a magazine's pages lazily while Chris watched a movie beside him. He noticed how the passenger across the passageway, a bald man appearing to be on his forties, kept glancing at them nervously, eyes lingering on Chris. Tom counted the time it would take for him to finally stand and come to ask for an autograph. 

~*~ 

When they arrived at the hotel the sky was darkening, the hotel staff efficiently taking their luggage while they checked in. The place was nice, a five-star franchise that promised them a warm bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, food at their disposition, a bathroom with all its deserved facilities and the nice view of the city afforded by the great veranda of the Presidential Suite. 

The sheets really were divine, Tom thought, sprawling on the bed as soon as the door unlocked for Chris' cardkey. 

"What do you say about dinner?" Chris asked, going through his luggage after nicer clothes. "I don't know the city well but we could try that restaurant the hotel advised." 

Tom hummed, thinking it over while Chris got into the bathroom. "Okay," he agreed, loudly as to be heard over the noise of rushing water coming from the bathroom. "But it's on you." he grinned, leaning on his elbows and reaching for his cell phone. 

The hour was incorrect because it still hasn't adjusted to Italy's time zone. Unlocking the screen, he paused as he got a look of the date, realizing for the first time that today was the 14th. His and Chris' 6 month anniversary was tomorrow. 

Tom could buy him a gift before the game tomorrow, but quietly wondered if Chris had remembered it. He knew nobody ever really celebrated every little month spent in a relationship, so he didn't know why the idea of Chris not caring about it bothered him so much. Trying to shake it away, he checked all of his notifications, answering Emma's email asking after his welfare and the messages from his colleagues back in London. He took the bathroom after Chris had exited, modesty only protected by a towel around his hips. He noticed Tom's lingering look and winked. 

The restaurant was beautiful, widely illuminated and classy. They hadn't made reservations but as they walked in hand-in-hand through the entrance a nice-looking maitre greeted them in accented English, promptly leading them to a table in a more secluded space, probably made as some sort of vip area. 

Tom took his seat pristinely while Chris nodded stiffly to the waiter who came to welcome them while handing the menu. He gave Chris the wine's list, Tom's boyfriend smiling thankfully before sliding it to Tom over the table. 

Tom selected a red, giving a short nod to the label the waiter presented him with before taking a perfunctory sip. Chris watched quietly, and Tom noticed that he looked a bit rigid inside his nice jacket, the one Tom had given to him. The waiter quickly moved to fill their glasses with water and wine before retreating as Tom fingered the menu, giving it inspecting eyes as he filtered the options. He glanced up at Chris above the menu in front of him, brows pinching. 

"What is it, darling?" 

Chris smiled as though caught doing something wrong, looking to the side before turning to Tom and shrugging. "You know that's not really my thing." 

Tom paused. 

Tom liked nice things, a habit he had acquired from his spoiled childhood, which he didn't bother to hide, living out of the best London could offer. He often surprised himself when thinking that Chris wasn't as accustomed to it, that his boyfriend had spent his earlier years in life running barefoot somewhere amidst the Australian outback. They were so contrasting upbringings that Tom sometimes wondered how the hell they had managed to meet each other, realizing that if it wasn't for Chris' abnormous talent and unrelentless practicing they would never be here, would've never met. If Chris hadn't grown to be famous, he thought, I'd never taken an interest in him. 

Tom opened his mouth, clicking it shut when he realized he didn't know what to say. Licking his lips, he chose a playful attitude, which never went wrong with Chris. "Having dinner with your boyfriend isn't your thing?" 

Chris chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he examined the top of the table. "You know what I mean." 

Raising an eyebrow, Tom set the menu down in front of him. "Chris, this restaurant was your choice." he said, because it was true, they were only here because Chris had suggested this place. Or else, the hotel. 

Chris looked unsure, and when Tom huffed and turned to call the waiter and ask for the check, he held his hand. "I wanted to impress you." 

Tom stared at him, confused at first before understanding his words. He laughed, squeezing Chris' hands and looking up at him. "To impress me?" Chris nodded shyly. Tom shook his head, "Darling, you impress me with a great amount of things. You don't need to risk your own comfort to ensure mine." 

Chris caressed his fingers. "But I want to ensure yours." 

Tom smiled, his heart warming. Chris was selfless, attending to Tom's every whim simply because he wanted to. It was endearing. "In that case, thank you." he whispered, returning the caress on his fingers before smiling secretively and taking the menu again. He was famished. "Why don't you choose something with me, darling?" he prompted, eyeing the lonely menu the waiter had deposited in front of Chris. 

Chris made a face. "Is it in French?" 

Tom snorted with laughter, recomposing quickly to explain "No, it's in Italian, darling, we're in Italy after all." 

"Do you speak Italian?" Chris asked, somewhat impressed. 

Tom swung his wine inside the glass, pointedly looking back at him. "What do you think?" Chris smirked, finally taking his own menu. "Is pasta good?", Tom asked, finding a nice dish. 

Chris hummed, Tom glancing up at him and already knowing he would decline. "Don't they have a steak?" his boyfriend replied, leaning forward on the table, confusingly analyzing the menu. "I have a game tomorrow, baby, I need protein." 

Tom chuckled. "Right. Then what about this one?" he turned his menu for Chris to see, pointing at his option. Chris stared at it blankly, "What does it mean?" 

Tom smirked, pulling the menu back to his lap and raising a hand for the waiter. "It means it's good." 

~*~ 

They walked back to the hotel on a slower gait, Tom's thin lips reddened by the wine as he smiled and laughed at possibly everything Chris said. He was tipsy, Chris could tell, wrapping an arm around his waist to bring Tom closer and keep him from stumbling on the sidewalk. He smelled good as always, a mix of cotton and soap and clean clothes and diluted expensive cologne. His hair was beginning to curl at the tips, a light shade of blond, and Chris ducked his head down to nose at the back of his neck. 

Tom giggled, swinging away in sensitivity. "Stop it, darling, we're at the street." 

Tom was not of a fan of pda, and this Chris had realized earlier on in their relationship. "It's dark," Chris defended himself, pulling him closer to try and nip at his jaw. 

"Still," Tom breathed, "There can be some paparazzi." 

"Hm," Chris sighed, letting go because he didn't want to bother Tom. They walked some more, Tom leaning his head against his shoulder. "That steak wasn't as good as you made it sound like," Chris mumbled, the windy night air flowing past them and rustling their clothes. 

Tom laughed. "Yeah. Sorry." 

Chris tugged him closer, a group of women coming the opposite way. They instantly looked down not to be recognized as the group walked past, apparently paying them no mind as they giggled and talked in quick Italian. Chris took one look at Tom and asked "Do you really speak Italian?" 

Tom gasped theatrically, pretending to be affronted by Chris' lack of trust on him. Chris laughed, "I noticed you didn't know a thing about that steak." 

Tom giggled, leaning to whisper in his ear. "I don't," he gulped, looking up at him mock guiltily before continuing "I don't speak Italian." Chris laughed, shaking his head. "But don't tell anyone, okay?" Tom asked, "It's our little secret." he winked. 

~*~ 

They took their clothes off slowly when arriving at their room, sliding into bed in only boxers. Tom settled against Chris' chest, palming the hard definition of a pec as they calmed down. The day's adventures began to weigh on them, the tiring trip and the walk back from dinner. Chris stared up at the ceiling, and Tom sensed he must be thinking about the game tomorrow. 

"Are you worried?" he murmured. 

Chris shifted a little bit, wrapping his arms around Tom and bringing him closer, his skin so soft and pale like a balm of warmth and suavity. Chris shook his head minimally, and Tom looked up, watching his profile, running a single digit over the short bristles that formed his beard. It reminded him how he had to shave tomorrow, some stubborn stubbles already pricking his own skin, and Tom absolutely hated to be photographed in a state less than perfect. 

"Don't be," he whispered, Chris looking down at him expectantly, "You'll kick his ass." 

Chris grinned heartfeltly, leaning to kiss him, his lips thin and moist. "You don't bet lightly on your horse, do you?" he chuckled against his lips. 

Tom barely contained a grin. "You know me so well." 

~*~ 

Chris woke earlier than Tom did, which was normal on a game day. Tom stirred awake, sprawled and wrapped around the sheets to look up and find his boyfriend's backside as he rummaged around his things. Chris sighed in defeat, taking one look over his shoulder and finding Tom awake, blinking blearily at him. "Tom, did you see my socks?" he asked, going back to the bathroom, which wafted out a clean smell of soap. 

Sitting up slowly on the mattress, Tom scratched an eye. "No, darling." As Chris hurried in the bathroom, Tom looked to the side in search of his phone. "What time is it?" 

Chris appeared on the doorway, spraying deodorant all over himself. "Eight." 

Tom hummed. Chris' game was in the afternoon, so they were in luck, Tom had been looking forward to visiting the city. 

"I asked for breakfast for two. It should be up here in a minute." Chris said, going back inside the bathroom. 

"Thank you." Tom whispered, yawning. He threw the sheets aside, the sunlight hitting the room and making him sweat. He got in the bathroom, Chris zipping his cargo shorts and shooting him a look from the mirror. Tom smiled, bending to take his boxers off and enter the shower stall before Chris wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him closer with that infamous strength of his. 

Tom yelped, laying both hands on his bare chest to try and pull away. "Good morning, sweetheart." he murmured, his voice hoarse and more seductive than Tom would like to admit. 

"Morning," he replied, dodging his kiss. "Morning breath," he explained, though Chris didn't know whether he was referring to his own or to his. Frowning, he let him go when there was a knock on the front door, pulling on a shirt to answer it while Tom got into the shower. 

Tom dressed nicely, on slacks and a tight polo shirt that attracted Chris' eyes more times than he could count, the contour of Tom's nipples visible. They ate breakfast on the small veranda table, and the view truly was amazing. On Tom's insistence, Chris opened the parasol to protect his boyfriend's sensitive skin, and Tom introduced the idea of them going for a tour around the city. 

"Alright, but only if I can kiss you without you becoming all squeamish." he replied, and Tom gave him the tongue. Chuckling, Chris beckoned him closer. 

"What?" Tom asked, frowning and tugging on his napkin. 

"Come here." Chris gestured. Tom huffed but did as pleased, pulling his chair to sit right beside him. Chris brought his cell phone up and Tom gasped, hiding his face. "Chris, no, I look horrible." 

Chris clicked his tongue. "You never look horrible, baby. Come on, it's for the fans." 

"No." Tom whined. 

"Just one," Chris pleaded, and Tom crossed his arms. He adjusted the angle, the city's landscape behind them, his and Tom's faces on first plan. "Come on, smile." 

Tom smiled a tiny smile and Chris snapped the photo. "Don't publish it." Tom said, pulling on his arm to see what he was doing on his cell phone. 

"Too late." Chris grinned, tapping something on his phone. 

"Chris-" Tom whined, shaking his arm. Chris laughed, showing him the photo on his cell phone. Hm, he looked alright. Not so bad. They looked handsome together, Tom's cheeks flushed, Chris' giant grin beside him, the city lighted gold behind them. 

"Gosh," Chris sighed. "We look so hot." 

~*~ 

The city was beautiful, and the sun unforgiving. Tom carried water bottles on his backpack, eyes squinted even from behind his sunglasses as they walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalks. They passed the arena where Chris would be playing later, some securities guarding the door as a few staff people came and went, one or another journalist loitering with badges hanging around their necks. They all recognized Chris, waving and straying to talk to him, shake his hand and ask how his preparation was doing. 

Even though it had been Tom's idea to take a look around the arena, he quickly came to regret it, standing off to the side as everyone came to greet his boyfriend, their fingers loosely clasped as Tom darted his eyes away, eyeing the stands where he would be sitting later as Chris partook on different conversations and interacted with strangers. He didn't care if he was pouting or being antipathetic because he had always had that smug reputation in the media, which some times irked him but that he had ended up accepting, Chris finding it so hilarious. 

Some staff girls appeared with cameras and Tom absolutely paled, crossing his arms and giving a step back as Chris politely attended to them. 

"I'm such a fan of yours, Chris," one of them said, staring up at him with glinting eyes. Tom cleared his throat but none of them seemed to hear it, which only served to make him seethe, pressing his lips together. Chris took a photo with her and finally turned to appraise him, Tom's scowl hard not to notice. 

"Thank you, guys, but I think me and Tom should get going." Chris excused, Tom snatching his hand right away. "We'll be seeing each other again later today, though. Thank you." 

"Bye, Chris!" One of the girls shouted when he and Tom were walking away, Chris turning to wave over his shoulder. He watched Tom's hard-angled profile and chuckled. "You know, you could be a bit more-" 

Tom swung his head to face him, lips thin and white. "More what?" 

Sensing trouble, Chris cleared his throat. "More... More nothing." He shrugged, squeezing Tom's hand. "More nothing, baby, you're perfect." he declared, stifling a smile. 

Tom humphed, sticking his nose up as he looked ahead, finishing in a clipped, self-satisfied voice. "Good." 

~*~ 

They spent the rest of the morning touring, Tom posing for Chris to snap pictures of him next to tourist spots. They drained both bottles of water and at some point stopped for gellatos, Tom's lips turning pink with his strawberry flavored one. They decided to have pizza for lunch, and Chris chose a homey restaurant next to the park. 

The walls were covered in tiles depicting Catholic saints, the faint echo of popular music sung in rapid Italian coming from a statics-filled radio somewhere. They found a table next to the window, Tom sliding his sunglasses up his forehead and eyeing the place. His nose wrinkled a little when they sat, the top of the table greasy beneath their fingers. 

A waiter wearing a t-shirt came to attend them, his arms hairy as he scribbled down their orders, doing his best to understand what Chris meant to be two margherita pizzas and two Cokes. They heard as he opened the kitchen's door and yelled their orders inside. 

With both elbows on the table, Tom supported his chin with a hand, arranging the cutlery with the other. "So..." he began, "This place is-" he paused, "Nice." 

"Yeah," Chris leaned back on his chair comfortably, widening his arms and legs and taking a look out the window. "It's simple. I like it." 

Tom nodded, applying more sunscreen lotion on his face. Chris leaned over the table so he could do the same to him, Tom's long fingers spreading the lotion around his cheeks, his eyes set in concentration. Chris stared at him, and only stopped when their pizzas arrived, a giant circle of cheese and tomato sauce that wafted out a delicious smell. 

"That was fast." Tom commented, preciously cutting a slice for himself and putting it on his plate while Chris grabbed a slice with his hands, closing his eyes and moaning at the taste, a string of cheese and tomato sauce clinging to his chin. 

"Ew." Tom twisted his nose at it. Chris ignored him, watching as his boyfriend took a bite out of the pizza and hummed. "Hm, it's really good." Tom gradually took larger bites, his mouth so full he almost couldn't chew properly, Chris laughing like a child and taking a picture. Tom tried to protest with a mouth full of pizza, fighting his own instinct to laugh, which could end badly for him in this situation. 

Bellies full, the trays lay empty before them after they had finished. "I don't know if I'll be able to play like this." Chris stated, patting the slight bump the food had formed on his stomach. Tom rolled his eyes, "You'll have digested it by the time the game is set to start." Tom's own stomach was twisting with excitement to watch the match. He did love the sport, and watching Chris playing always did little funny things to him. 

Tom insisted to pay the bill, though it hadn't costed more than ten euros. Chris waited for him at the cash desk, carrying his boyfriend's backpack as Tom went to the toilet, conversing with the waiter as best as he could, a confusion of English and Italian and lots of hand gestures. 

They walked back to the hotel slowly, preferring to walk on the shaded part of the sidewalk, Tom's sunglasses back in place. Chris always took a nap before his matches and Tom quickly grew accustomed into joining him. Their room's AC was on, the place blessedly cool after the stifling hotness they had experimented outside. They took quick showers to get rid of the dried sweat and clinging dirt, Tom slipping into his favourite pair of cotton pajamas and lying down next to Chris on the bed, his boyfriend quickly wrapping him in his arms. 

"Nervous?" Tom asked, arms around Chris' neck. 

His boyfriend was nothing if not sincere. "A little, yeah." 

"You know you don't need to, right?" Tom played with a lock of his hair. "I'll be there." 

Chris chuckled, "That only makes me more nervous." 

Frowning, Tom slid closer. "Why?" 

"What if I stumble and fall on my ass or miss a terribly easy pass?" Tom laughed, Chris' fears sounding so ridiculous. "I'm serious," he insisted, "What if I embarrass myself in front of you?" 

"That's not going to happen, darling," Tom assured after recuperating his breath. Chris kissed his forehead, and after a minute of silence, eyes beginning to droop, asked "Are you going to cheer for me?" 

Tom hummed. "Don't I always?" 

~*~ 

Tom had been almost closing his eyes when he began to feel sick, his belly rumbling and twisting in a way that made him embarrassed, glad that Chris was already asleep. He tossed in bed, escaping Chris' embrace and facing the opposite wall in mild agitation. He took deep breaths and moaned quietly, a hand on his belly. In the back of his mind he thought about how he could be using this time to buy Chris' gift. A little before their set time to wake up, he rose and ran to the bathroom. 

Chris woke with the bed empty beside him, turning off the alarm that rang incessantly on his phone. "Tom?" he called, stretching his limbs. He needed to get his things so they could go. Tom always took so long to dress up, checking his reflection and pampering himself that Chris smiled at the notion that his boyfriend had woken up before him so they wouldn't be late. 

Sighing, Chris stood, getting his practice bag ready save for the pair of socks he still hadn't been able to find. He could ask Tom for one of his. 

Curling his hands into fists Chris tried to concentrate. This was the semifinal. All he had to do was to defeat his rival so he and Tom could fly to Dubai. "Tom?" he called again, eyeing the bathroom's shut door. Tom's response was a muffled, strangled moan. Dumping his things on the floor, Chris ran to the door, trying the knob to find it locked. He knocked insistently. "Tom!?" 

"Chris," Tom's breathy voice came out. "I don't think I'm feeling too well." 

"What do you mean?" he asked, knocking once more. "Tom, open the door." 

Silence for two seconds. "Please, don't come in here." he answered in a meek voice. 

Chris huffed, both hands on the door as if he could push it open. "Baby, open the door," he tried on a gentler voice. "What are you feeling?" 

A sniffle. "I think it was that pizza." 

"The pizza?" Chris frowned. "But we had the same and I'm not feeling anything." 

"No," Tom whined that stubborn whine of his. "I had one and you had the other." Chris sighed, scratching his forehead. God, he certainly hadn't been waiting for this. "Alright, baby, but what are you feeling? I need to see if you're okay." he tried the doorknob again. 

"Don't come in here." Tom insisted. "I-" he groaned. 

"Tom," he called, exasperated; he couldn't be late for the match. "Don't be ridiculous, open the door." 

There was an annoyed grunt from inside before Chris heard the lock turning, opening the door almost immediately to see Tom's back retreating to the corner of the room. Oh, he paused. He understood now why Tom didn't want him to come in. The bathroom reeked. 

Chris fought against his instinct to leave the room, going after Tom and trying to make him turn around. "Baby," he whispered, holding his elbow. Tom kept ducking to hide his face, though Chris could see his down-turned lips and his ashamed expression. For a person like Tom, so used to apparenting perfection, this could be certainly humiliating. "Are you okay?" 

"Of course not!" Tom shrieked, hiding his face with his hands. 

"Oh, baby." Chris murmured, making use of his strength to disentangle Tom's hesitant and stiff limbs and hug him. Tom groaned, pressing his face against Chris' shoulder. They swung in place, Chris kissing the top of his head. "It's okay, baby, it's okay." 

Tom nodded as best as he could, pulling out of the hug, eyeslashes stuck together with the trace of some tears. "Hey?" Chris called, running the tip of his fingers on his jaw. Tom kept his eyes down, lips red. 

"I'm sorry," Tom murmured. "I'm all-" he paused, gulping forcefully, eyes widening as he shoved Chris out of the way. Chris watched with a heavy heart as his boyfriend retched, bent in front of the toilet bowl. He ran a hand over his slim back, keeping his head in place and making sure he wouldn't run out of breath. 

When it subsided, Tom groaned, batting Chris' hands away and spitting in the sink, Chris standing to the side as Tom almost drowned with peppermint mouthwash. "God," he groaned when finished, pressing his wrists against his eyes. "This is awful." 

"Tom," Chris began, watching him seriously. As if sensing what he was about to say, Tom turned on his heels and went back to the bedroom, making an indignant huff in the back of his throat. He couldn't avoid it forever, though. "Tom, I think it'd be better if you stayed inside." 

Tom whined, shaking his head and flopping belly down on the mattress. "And miss the game?" he retorted. It wasn't fair. 

Chris shrugged. It couldn't be helped. "I'll let reception know you're not feeling well-" 

"No!" Tom gasped, as if he couldn't stand the thought of having someone else know what was wrong with him. 

Chris went to sit on the bed's edge beside him. "Baby, are you absolutely sure that if we go you won't feel ill again?" Tom's face was hidden on the pillow but Chris saw as he shook his head, his jumble of untamed curls Chris loved so much moving. "Then I think it'd be better if you stayed here. I'll ask for them to bring you some tea, you can watch the game on the television. What do you say?" he asked, a thumb caressing one of Tom's vertebrae. 

Tom nodded, but only after much thought. "Great." Chris said, standing to dress. "Message me if you don't feel any better." he continued. "I can check my phone between sets, but promise me you'll call the reception if it gets any worse, alright?" 

Tom moaned in response, face still smashed on the pillow. He heard as Chris dressed hurriedly, feeling a little bad for making him late. Chris paused on the door, "Baby, do you have a spare pair of socks?" he asked, already moving towards Tom's luggage. 

"I don't know," Tom mumbled, turning on his back, stomach twisting. "Chris," he called, his boyfriend squatting to open Tom's luggage. "Hey, no, don't," Tom sat up while Chris hummed, rummaging through his clothes. "Chris, stop," he admonished, standing up. "Don't touch my things!" 

Chris snatched his hands back, startling, Tom's voice higher than he was used to hearing. Tom walked to him, carrying his luggage away with a vivid ferocity. Chris' mouth was left hanging open. On a quick move, he stood, Tom in front of him, panting. 

They stared at each other, Tom's eyes blinking quickly, the clench of his jaw dissolving until he was left looking pathetically like a deer caught in headlights, probably realizing how rude he had just sounded. "Chris, I'm s-" 

"You know, why do you always do this? Why do you always have to be-?" Chris huffed, cutting himself short and shaking his head in frustration. Tom's eyes were wide with regret, feeling his own mind cornering. He knew what Chris meant, and felt suddenly ashamed for it. 

"Chris," he tried, when his boyfriend turned and walked towards the door. His own voice sounded so meek. "Wait, Chris-" 

"I'll be back once the game is done." Chris said, a hand on the doorknob as he spared Tom a last look before going. Sighing, Tom hung his head, his lower stomach rumbling again. 

~*~ 

Amidst wondering if he had just fucked up too badly, Tom showered, not supporting the essence of his own skin. He hated both situations individually: food intoxication and scaring Chris away. Combined they made him itchy and moody, his bottom lip protruding stubbornly as his mind kept replaying everything. 

It wasn't often that he and Chris had an episode like this, but when they did it was almost always because of Tom. Because of his clingy nature and pretentious mannerisms. He felt like apologizing, because even though he had accepted himself as simply being like that Tom still felt self-conscious and embarrassed for having it mentioned or shoved back in his face by people that were not virtual like the press. 

He wore the flimsiest set of clothes he had brought, padding to the door when a maid showed up with a tea tray. Tom thanked her, sitting against the headboard and boredly going through channels as he waited for Chris' match to start. The tea soothed his stomach a little but from time to time he still had to go to the bathroom. 

Tom finally settled on the sports channel that would be broadcasting the match in English, the game court empty as the stands slowly filled with people. Chewing on his bottom lip, he thought about his empty seat next to the bottom row. 

Watching Chris through the television was always a different experience. He looked taller and more handsome and today, his face looked somber, brows drawn low as he kept swinging the racket from hand to hand while waiting for the ball to be replenished. He lost the first set and Tom clicked his tongue in worry. 

The commentators were two men that kept linking Chris' brooding mood and losing points to Tom's absence, the camera more than once focusing on his reserved seat on the stands, empty. "Some of our colleagues attested to having seen him today in his boyfriend's company," one of them said, ignoring Chris' ace in favour of gossiping about the athlete's relationship. Tom rolled his eyes. It wasn't until the other one made a double entendre guess regarding their apparent cold relationship that Tom decidedly lowered the television's volume, blushing to the roots of his hair. 

The game went to tie-break. Tom bit his nails, his heart thudding impatiently. 

This championship meant a lot to Chris, who had practiced for weeks on end to get his deserved hold of the trophy. A slip like this would surely end his dreams for good, not to mention Tom would be left feeling like shit because he knew he was the reason for Chris' lack of concentration. Already he could feel the guilt eating him up, even though he knew Chris was an experienced athlete who was supposed to ignore emotional complications that could compromise his career. And... there was also the fact that if Chris lost Tom could go kissing Dubai bye bye, together with it the tan he had been looking forward to improving. It was a fickle afterthought but Tom often was fickle like that. It was one thing to date a tennis player, but it was another, entirely different thing to date an international champion tennis player. 

Chris scored first though, Tom cheering but fisting the sheets in apprehension when his rival scored next. He could feel his insides rumbling again, sparing a quick glance to the bathroom before shifting his gaze back to the television, where the player prepared to serve the next ball. "Not now, not now..." he murmured, caressing his lower stomach to assuage the discomfort. 

Chris scored again, Tom yelping in delight, his heartbeat quickening. Chris was preparing to serve the next ball when Tom's belly cramped, and startled, he jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, not being able to listen to the television as the volume was too low. 

Whining, he stomped his foot impatiently, running back to the television after flushing the toilet. 

Chris had won. He had won! He had scored again and he had won. 

Sighing in happiness and relief, Tom watched as his boyfriend thanked the clapping audience, shaking his opponent's hand and patting his back. He had a nice smile on, his shirt clinging to his chest, and Tom bloomed with the need to kiss him, his knees giving out as he sat back on the bed. He wished he was there now, so he could stand from his seat and clap along with the crowd, the camera lenses no doubt turning to him to catch his proud smile. 

Groaning, he broke out of his thoughts when some live reporters entered the court to interview Chris, his boyfriend giving the crowd a last wave before approaching them on cautious footsteps. One asked about the game and Chris gave his brief opinion on it, considering the match even and congratulating his opponent. "Chris, this means you're in the final next week in Dubai." another pipped in hurriedly before Chris could go, "The semi-final that'll decide the other finalist is tomorrow, can you give us your favourite for the match?" 

Chris smiled crookedly. Tom didn't know why those people always asked such potentially unprofessional and awkward questions, couldn't they see that a professional athlete couldn't answer that without disrespecting another's hard work? "I think both have what it takes to be victorious, it'll be no doubt a tough decision." Chris answered and ducked to exit the court, but the reporter promptly asked another question. "Chris, Chris, we didn't see your boyfriend, Tom, here today to watch the match. Is everything okay?" 

Chris avoided looking at the camera and gave a short, false chuckle. He put an impatient foot out of the court to indicate he was leaving and looked over his shoulder as if he had just remembered the reporter was still awaiting an answer. "He wasn't feeling well and decided to stay at the hotel. Thank you." he dismissed, nodding to another reporter who congratulated him for winning the match and moving away before someone else could further question it. 

~*~ 

Tom had just finished the soup so generously provided by the hotel when the door clicked open for Chris. Resting against the headboard, Tom put the bowl aside on his bedside table, his eyes darting to Chris uncertainly, hands resting on his knees beneath the sheets. "Hey," he murmured, watching as his boyfriend closed the door and adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "I watched your game-" Tom continued, but clicked his mouth shut when Chris walked inside and deposited his bag on the floor, not looking as if he had heard him. 

"Are you feeling any better? You didn't message me, I was worried." Chris asked, taking his shoes off and sighing. 

"Hm, yes, I- I had some soup. They brought me more tea and water during the game, I'm not going to the bathroom as frequently now." Tom rubbed his arm, not knowing a better way to demonstrate his regret for what had happened between them earlier. He bit his lower lip and looked up at Chris as he moved about the room. "I'm sorry for not messaging. I was watching the game and-" a sigh, "You were amazing. Congratulations." 

That brought a quick smile to Chris' lips, who found some sweatpants on his luggage and mumbled a low "Thank you." Spurred on, Tom began, "Chris, I'm sorry. About earlier. I didn't mean to, I'm just-" he shrugged, his throat feeling tight, not knowing how to express himself. Tom had always been good with words but when it came to apologizing he never really knew what to say besides 'sorry', which in his opinion wasn't enough, not for the guilt he was feeling nor for the strange embarrassment that came along with recognizing his own mistakes. 

Chris shook his head lightly, but his face remained unexpressive. He took his clothes off quickly and replaced them for his sweatpants. Tom swallowed dryly, his eyes stinging at the corners. God, he had fucked up really bad. What if Chris got tired of his apologies and decided it was over? That he wouldn't be taking him to Dubai after all and that he could find someone better, who kissed him openly in the streets and shared his taste for a simpler lifestyle? 

Not taking the opportunity to further embarrass himself Tom remained mute, his face undoubtedly pale with fear. Chris took his place on the other side of the bed, and when Tom felt like he was about to lie down and turn his back to him his boyfriend slid a hand to his chin, tipping it up so they were face to face. "It's okay," he whispered, so softly and gently that Tom wanted to cry in relief, closing his eyes and sighing before he could do just that. He inclined his forehead towards Chris', gripping his wrist to transmit his affection physically. "It's okay, baby. I understand you." Chris continued, kissing the skin just below Tom's right eye. "Here, for you." he said, and Tom felt as a square box was settled on his lap. Blinking his eyes open, he looked down to find it wrapped in red gift paper, a single, black ribbon resting atop it. "For our 6 months birthday." Chris stated, kissing his cheek and smiling, Tom staring down at his lap with a hanging mouth. 

"Oh, Chris..." he breathed, touching the ribbon with an hesitant fingertip. "Oh my god, I didn't get you anything, I'm so sorry." 

Chris shrugged, unperturbed. "Doesn't matter." 

"Of course it does," Tom insisted, turning to look at him. "I remembered, I swear. But I had no time to buy you anything because I got this thing today and I thought you would forget about it." he blurted out, Chris frowning slightly, eyebrows rising in teasing surprise. 

"Oh, you did?" 

"Yes," Tom chuckled. He was such an idiot. "But it wasn't for lack of faith, I thought you'd think it silly of me." he said, because it was true. "You know, six months..." he shrugged. 

"Six months is half an year, baby." Chris defended, peppering his shoulder with kisses, his smile threatening to split his whole face. He truly didn't seem sad or disappointed for Tom's lack of a gift, instead his eyes were warm, almost as if he was having fun. Tom's heart tugged and floated, not believing he had such a perfect boyfriend when he had such a shitty attitude. It occurred to him that he had underestimated Chris out of a reflection of his own carelessness for their relationship, had put more faith in his lack of investment on it simply because... Because Tom had always had this idea that it wouldn't last, that they were together for pure physical attraction. Well, he wouldn't commit that mistake again. 

Chris laughed at his flabbergasted expression, nudging his arm towards the gift. "Come on, open it." 

After taking in a short breath Tom nodded quietly, willing his hands to unwrap the red gift paper. What it hid from his sight was a black velvet box, its golden inscriptions spelling the name of an expensive jewelry. Tom gasped, "Chris..." 

Chris grinned, enveloping him in his arms and leaning so both of them rested against the headboard, the plush softness of their pillows supporting their backs. "Open it, baby," he insisted, face tucked between Tom's shoulder and neck so he felt the movement of his lips when he spoke. 

This was certainly a surprise, Tom thought nervously. Was that what he thought it was? Slowly, he inched the lid open, coming face to face with a sleek golden wristwatch. "Oh my god, darling," he gasped, taking it out of its position and trying it on without a second thought. "It's beautiful." It fit around his wrist perfectly, his pale skin contrasting nicely with its glinting casts and intricacies. "It must've cost you a fortune." 

Chris laughed, shrugging. "I don't mind." 

Something warm and soft assaulted Tom, his heart soaring. Suddenly his luck for having met Chris was all he could think about. Chris never judged Tom, always put up with his moods and jealousy, he took him along with him on his travels, didn't forget their birthday, cared for Tom's health and gave him amazing gifts like this one, knowing how much Tom liked nice things and never tiring to spoil him. And he had won today. Tom had to hold himself back from using the special surprise he had brought on his luggage and that Chris had almost seen today. 

With the wristwatch still on, Tom put the box and gift paper aside carefully under Chris' curious eyes, tugging the sheets as he spun around to straddle his hips, lying over the expanse of muscled chest beneath him with a smart grin, glad that Chris had chosen to wear no shirt as his hands rubbed his sides up and down. "You're amazing, you know that?" he whispered, mirroring Chris' naughty smile. His boyfriend raised an eyebrow smartly and looked more than pleased when Tom initiated a kiss. 

Tom liked kissing Chris. His lips were soft and he always knew what to do with them, possessing a technique that had something in Tom's chest springing up in jealousy when thinking about how many other people he had kissed to acquire it. 

Chris nipped at his lips, tugging his bottom lip with his teeth and making Tom shudder in appreciation. Both of Chris' hands were on his face, because there was nothing he didn't do without putting all his passion into it. He made sure to swipe his thumbs over Tom's cheeks, to run his palms over his back to soothe the skin, squeezing his buttcheeks with an almost reverent ease, tipping his chin this way and the other to kiss his throat, envelope him in his arms; all of his actions leaving Tom clinging to breathe, his body sweaty and hot, rolling towards Chris', as if it answered to his boyfriend's commands instead of his own. 

Tom had never met someone who knew just how to take care of him. That's why when Chris began to accompany the movement of his hips, Tom reached back to dip the waistline of his own underwear, the room's cold air brushing against his backside and making him shiver. 

"Eager, are we?" Chris enticed. Tom rolled his eyes, but couldn't hold back a smirk. He missed Chris in him. 

Chris swept his hands over the globes of his ass, his face doing nothing to hide how much he was enjoying himself. Tom's parted mouth hovered over his ear and when Chris pinched the skin, Tom gasped and breathed "Pervert." 

Chris was right, though. Tom was eager, but he always was when it came to sex. His cock was already red and hard beneath him, his hole lay fluttering in anticipation for Chris' fingers and although he knew they needed the lube, which they always brought along, his skin itched because why wouldn't Chris put it in already? 

"Chris, come on." he insisted, reaching back to lead his boyfriend's hands closer to his entrance. 

"Baby..." Chris held back, grimacing uncertainly. 

"What?" Tom was more interested on the delicious friction of their pelvis, his eyes swimming a little out of focus while he went on imagining Chris' fingers deep in his ass. 

"Hm, I don't know how to say this but, you know, are you still going to the bathroom?" Chris asked, making a face as he expected Tom's harsh reply and his boyfriend's mortified face, which didn't take long to come, Tom freezing atop him as his mouth hung open. 

"I- I cleaned myself-" Tom whispered after a gasp, hiding his face from view with both hands, embarrassed and a little outraged. It would be comical if it was happening to anyone else other than him. 

"I know, but maybe we should do something that doesn't involve... you know?" Chris tried, wanting to laugh at the high blush on Tom's cheeks but knowing better than doing it and receiving a slap to the face. 

Chris shrugged to Tom's indignant huff, who notably fought his own instinct in favor of crossing his arms and putting on a petulant pout, his cheeks ablaze. "We could do something else..." Chris was cut short when Tom grabbed his cock, pulling it out of his pants and ignoring his wince as he clutched it in a fist. "Tom, wait-" But Tom was already pumping his length with furious determination, a mix of pain and pleasure twisting Chris' lower belly, his cock quickly filling under the pressure. 

"Fuck," he hissed, head knocking against the headboard as Tom's fingers worked on him, the wet and glistening head peeking from between his fingers as the foreskin was pulled down, a heavy frown of concentration in Tom's face. He twisted his fist in a way that left Chris a little breathless, shutting his eyes, head rolling to the side, and upon regaining his sight, looked down as Tom slowly inclined himself towards him, and god, he wasn't going to... He was. Tom bent and licked the swollen head tentatively, testing the taste of it in his tongue before diving to plant a sweet kiss on it. Chris grunted in pleasure and affection and surprise: Tom didn't usually go down on him without making him wear a condom. 

He looked a little hesitant himself, not meeting Chris' eyes as if he was as surprised as Chris, enveloping the head in his mouth finally, his lips stretched beautifully around it. The impact of his teeth dragged a wince out of Chris, body tensing beneath him as Tom pulled back as if electrocuted. The corners of his mouth shone with spit, as though he was overeager to do it, to please. Tom sat back on his heels and looked up at him, mouth moving as he toyed with the strange flavor of his precum that lingered on his tongue. His eyes were wide, and they stared at each other in utter befuddlement until Tom, struck with the same impulse from before, resumed. 

Chris didn't know the cause to Tom's sudden disinhibition, so he laid back and enjoyed the warm and wet feeling around his cock. It was visible that Tom was trying to deep throat him, attempting twice before his Adam's apple bobbed and he gagged. "Hey, it's okay-" Chris whispered, a hand on his head as he played with his curls while Tom caught his breath, lips shiny and red. He swallowed before diving again, a hand resting on Chris' hip bone while the other pushed his inner thigh away to make more room for his docile treatment on the head of Chris' cock. 

"That's it, baby-" Chris hissed, both hands on Tom's face, thumbs caressing his cheekbones. Tom glanced up at him, blue eyes shiny under the lights, trying to gauge Chris' reaction before he tilted his head languidly, dragging the head of Chris' cock purposefully against the inner side of his cheek. Chris groaned, feeling his own cock through the meat of Tom's cheek where his hand was, angling his neck to assist him. 

Tom's eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling around him, pleased with himself for the result he had achieved. "You're cheeky, aren't you?" Chris teased, aware of the double meaning of his words. Tom's eyes slit in reply, moaning and humming around Chris' cock, the vibrations traveling deliciously through Chris' body, the man cursing and shutting his eyes, hips bucking before he could stop himself. 

Instead of gagging, Tom made and effort to continue, his cheeks reddening, drool and precum slipping down his chin as he concentrated, keeping his eyes lowered on the base of Chris' length as if keeping in mind how much was left. Chris' eyelashes fluttered in ecstasy, groaning in a breath as he watched and felt as Tom's throat enveloped him further and further, his cock sliding over wet and tight walls. Tom stopped centimeters away from the base, his nostrils flaring as he drew more breath in, eyeing what was left with hard set eyes. 

Chris grunted, securing Tom's neck to show him that it was perfect, he didn't have to go down any further. But Tom glanced up at him with a determined frown, angling his body and neck before Chris slid all the way inside when Tom's lips met the bottom of his cock, his aristocratic nose buried in the coarse curls at the base. 

"Oh god..." Chris breathed, Tom shooting him a self-satisfied look, smiling before he started bobbing his head. 

Chris saw stars, not taking his eyes away from Tom's head of blond curls going up and down on his length, a small and playful tongue licking the path of veins whenever Tom retreated to lavish attention on the crown. "Yeah, baby-" Chris goaded, Tom responding with a moan, staring up at him and locking their gazes as he swept his tongue in a graceful rotation around the head, the sight of it enough to have Chris' balls drawing tighter, his cock leaking a small portion of precum and seed that Tom quickly licked away. 

"You want my come?" Chris asked, grabbing a handful of his curls lightly, Tom's eyes fixed on his. 

Tom nodded, his cheeks reddening, the cold metal of the wrist watch Chris had just gifted to him meeting his inner thigh and making Chris gasp with the thermal shock. Tom sucked the head, cheeks hollowing beautifully. 

"Fuck," Chris groaned, eyes going to Tom's hips humping the bed. His boxers and shorts had been taken off, tangled at his ankles while his buttocks bounced with the force of his movements. If Tom hadn't been sick today Chris would have them 69 just so he could bury his face between those cheeks while Tom blowed him. It was no secret that Tom's ass was Chris' favorite body part of his, and as it always sounded, the curly blond also had a preference for when Chris played with it. 

Tom moaned around his shaft again, lips wrapped around it as he deep throated him again. Chris fisted the bed sheets, hips bucking, but Tom didn't seem to mind, retreating only slightly so he would be more comfortable while Chris fucked his mouth. 

Chris' thumbs swept over the hollow of Tom's cheeks as his boyfriend sucked his length, the force of it and the build up of Chris' thrusts enough to have him releasing, body convulsing with aftershocks as Tom frowned at the taste of his come as it began to shoot, letting his cock go with a wet pop. 

Chris wasn't surprised that Tom hadn't swallowed his come. To have Tom blowing him without a condom was already a conquest as it was. Despite his disgust, Tom made no attempt to distance himself as Chris' cock remained bursting seed, he even tilted his head so some of it would smear his cheeks. In an unfortunate jet, though, Chris' come hit Tom's eye. 

"Ouch!" Tom whined, flinching and putting a hand over his eye. 

"Shit," Chris cursed, still riding the waves of his orgasm though his heart jumped in his chest. "Tom," he called when Tom stood in a flash to the bathroom. "Tom!" He couldn't help a light chuckle though, his sensitive and soft cock lying against his thigh uncomfortably as he stood up to follow. "Baby, wait, are you okay?" 

"Fuck," Tom murmured, head bent over the sink as he rinsed his eye, tapping water against his eyelid. Chris watched by the doorway, "Baby," he called, Tom switching the water tap off, cleaning his face with a towel and turning to Chris, wiping his eye tenderly. "Let me see." Chris brushed his fingers against Tom's wrist, taking it away from his eye. Hand on his chin, Chris propped Tom's head up to see. His left eye was red, small veins of blood around his iris. "Does it hurt?" Chris asked softly, kissing his forehead. 

"A little." Tom murmured, leaning into his chest. 

Chris smiled slyly when he felt Tom's erection brushing his abdomen. He cupped a hand over it, Tom wincing and clawing at his shoulders. "And here, does it hurt?" 

Tom hissed against Chris' neck, dutifully walking backwards as Chris guided him towards the sink, leaning on it as Chris' fist began to pump his length. Tom closed his eyes, a hum rumbling inside his chest as he bit his lower lip. 

Chris inhaled the sweet scent of his skin, nuzzling the curve of a shoulder, the soft skin of his throat. Tom's little sounds reverberated through the room like a melody, a hand fastened to Chris' hip to secure him in place and make sure he wouldn't step back. 

Tom finished quickly, bucking into Chris' fist and letting out a high-pitched cry in his ear. His seed spilled against his and Chris' stomachs, nails tightening on Chris' shoulder. Tom was left panting, his hot breath brushing Chris' neck. 

"God..." Tom breathed, laughing shortly. Chris hugged him, uncaring of their skins, dirty with come and sweat. Tom didn't protest much, still reeling with the effects of his orgasm. 

"How is your eye?" Chris asked, kissing a cheekbone. 

"It's still weird," Tom replied, looking up so Chris could see his eye. 

Chris hummed. It was still red but it was getting better. "Sorry," he said, bringing Tom closer to peck his lips. "My come is powerful." 

"Shut up," Tom laughed, swatting him away. 

~*~ 

"It feels like it's gotten worse." Tom mumbled, eyes fixed on his book as Chris returned from his talk to a fan. They were at the airport now, waiting for their flight to Dubai, which was delayed. During the last two days they had spent in Italy Tom's sickness had diminished until he was left feeling as normal as always. Still, he stayed away from fatty food. 

"Don't say that," Chris defended, taking his seat beside Tom as his boyfriend continued reading. "I'm a finalist now, it tends to increase. He just wanted to wish me luck in the match." 

"And ask for a photo." Tom added, flicking a page. 

"Jealous much?" 

Tom glanced his way before his hard façade slipped, allowing him to smile and lean closer to whisper "Yes." 

Chris laughed, kissing his ear before Tom could squirm away. "Can I put my arm on the back of your chair or would that be akin to explicit, public sex to you?" Chris teased. He knew Tom didn't mind small gestures such as those but he wouldn't miss an opportunity to tease his boyfriend. 

"Normally I would let you," Tom replied, turning back to his book. "But seeing as you made that joke, now I won't. You're feeling way too smug for being in the final." 

Chris pouted but slid his arm over Tom's shoulders anyway. Tom gave him a hard stare before smiling and tucking his head beside his neck. "What are you reading?" Chris asked, though from this angle he could read along with Tom if he so wished. Instead, he preferred to close his eyes and whiff at Tom's blond curls, humming at the smell of his shampoo. 

But before Tom could answer him the speaker's female voice announced their flight would depart in a few minutes and that their gate was open. Grunting, they stretched and got their things, going to stand in line to have their tickets checked. 

Chris' phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket, snaking a hand to secure Tom's hip as he thumbed the screen down with a frown. "What is it?" Tom asked, trying to lean closer to see. 

"The semifinal is almost beginning." 

Tom's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't really paid attention to the fact that Chris' rival at the final still hadn't been determined. "I didn't know our flight was scheduled for the same time as the match. We could've watched it back at the hotel." Tom said. 

Chris shrugged, pocketing his cell phone and staring ahead with a low brow. "Never mind." 

But Tom could see he was a little bothered, taking a step forward as the line moved and asking "Who's playing?" 

Tom was a tennis fan, he knew the names and tactics and records of possibly every player in the world. He and Chris used to have a lot to discuss whenever they watched a match together, Tom more often than not stubbornly defending his favorite to win the match, which sometimes proved to be true while in other times he lost to Chris' practiced experience in the court. 

"An American guy," Chris said, shrugging one shoulder before adding, "And Frederick." 

"Oh," Tom gasped, licking his lips and avoiding Chris' gaze as they handed their tickets. "I didn't know Frederick would be playing the semifinal." 

Chris watched him carefully, the hand he had on Tom's hip tightening as he pulled him closer towards him while they made their way into the airplane. 

Frederick was the only British player on the league, and also Tom's almost-ex. That was because they had had only a short fling some time before Tom had met Chris. It had been nothing more than some heavy flirting and a hand that constantly strayed more to Tom's ass than he was ever comfortable with. 

Frederick's and Chris' rivalry was a thing of legend, openly known even before Tom had met the Australian; and now with their current relationship, Tom supposed it had only increased tenfold. He had no hard feelings for Frederick, though now he began to see how dislikeable the other player truly was and how he wouldn't have tolerated him for perhaps more than a week if Tom was being particularly patient. But Frederick hadn't seemed to like the idea that Tom, whom he had been trying to conquer with his miserable romantic skills for some time, had "traded" him for Chris, his long-time rival. He had even gone to the point of writing Tom a very long and nasty email the day after those pictures of him and Chris making out before Chris' game had first popped up in the tabloids. 

Nowadays though, Frederick had found himself a rather skinny model for a girlfriend, Stella, a woman that Tom detested with everything he had. Unfortunately, he had met her more than once at some events and she had only further confirmed his suspicions as being as jealous and snob and unpleasant as he had first assumed. She also had the terrible habit of making eyes at Chris, which, fine, Tom couldn't blame her for, because Frederick, although not bad-looking, wasn't the type of man that would maintain your attention for long, certainly for not one third as long as Chris would. 

Regardless, Tom wasn't expecting them to invade the good time he and Chris were having together. Last time he checked Frederick wasn't so high up in the world ranking and he hadn't found it possible for him to haunt them at this year's championship. Evidently, he was wrong, and if Frederick won today, he and Stella would cross ways with Tom and Chris at Dubai, and Chris would face him at the final. It'd undoubtedly be the sport's most awaited for face-off for the championship title and Tom couldn't be more nervous. 

"Is the American guy Campbell?" Tom asked after the silence that had engulfed them until now, seatbelts fastened as the airplane taxied. 

"Hn?" Chris turned to him in question. 

"The guy playing Frederick now, is it Campbell?" 

"Yes, I think so." Chis mumbled, staring ahead with a serious face. 

Tom hummed, glancing at Chris to check his mood before continuing, "He's good. Very good. I wouldn't be surprised if he won." 

Chris continued staring ahead, almost as if he hadn't heard him, but blinked once before his face broke out into a wide grin, raising an eyebrow to Tom as their plane took off. "Really?" 

"Yes," Tom replied, turning indignant when Chris laughed. "It's true, I watched some of his matches, he's very quick, he has very good chances of- Chris?!" 

Chris wouldn't stop laughing, but after some minutes of Tom's pouting, regained his breath and pinched Tom's cheek. "He's good, but Frederick is better, sweetheart." 

"I don't think so." Tom said, and they both knew he was lying just to appease themselves, to shake off the ghostly idea of facing Frederick in the final. 

"You know so," Chris contested, "And so do I." He sighed longsufferingly before snatching a magazine out from the front seat. Tom opened his mouth to retort, but clicked it shut when he realized Chris wasn't carrying anymore. 

"Do you think you can handle him?" Tom asked softly, when they were perhaps midway into the trip, Chris' earphones thumping music as Tom played with the ice cubes of his drink and took a break from his book. 

"Hm, did you say something?" Chris asked, pulling his earphones out with a hand. 

"Do you think you can handle him?" Tom repeated, watching the gyrating movement of his fingertip over the ice cubes. It was clear they were talking about Frederick, and Chris analyzed Tom's profile for awhile before answering with another, identical question. 

"Do _you_ think you can handle him?" 

Tom's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. He wasn't sure how much Chris knew about him and Frederick, but Tom didn't know his boyfriend gave two thoughts about it. He raised an eyebrow teasingly, "Jealous much?" 

Chris laughed, throwing his head back. "Touché, baby, touché." 

~*~ 

When they arrived at Dubai, it was 8 am at the local time. Tom had expected the summer to be as punishing in here as it was back in Italy, he just hadn't expected it to feel worse. He fanned himself with a handout from their airline while Chris made small talk to the taxi driver, who apparently hadn't recognized him. 

Tom was anxious to get to the hotel, a great-looking resort he had convinced Chris to beg his manager for. He and Chris still didn't know who had won the semifinal, and the apprehension prickled the back of his mind. 

He forgot all about the game's result when they arrived, shrieking in excitement as he ran inside the room. "Chris!" he called, opening the sliding glass doors that led to their room's private pool. "Look at this!" Chris let their bags hit the floor with a thump, and followed Tom in a slower pace. 

"Oh my god, this is beautiful, look." Tom kneeled next to the pool's edge, dipping a hand into the water to feel its temperature. He sighed. It felt wonderful, perhaps a little too cold but in this heat, it was perfect. "I'm going in!" Tom made up his mind, running back to the room to change. 

While Tom changed into his swimwear Chris rested against a recliner in the shade. It really was beautiful and Chris was glad for indulging Tom. The sky was blue, not even the brushing tail of a cloud visible; the sun was a yellow ball that shone brightly upon them, accentuating the blue waters of the pool and the white span of the sunshade. It looked paradisiacal and if Chris' last match were to be against whom he thought it was, he certainly deserved the rest. 

There was something, no, not something, everything in Frederick set his mind off. The Brit was conceited, holding himself above any other player. Perhaps Chris wouldn't be so averse to him if their first encounter hadn't been so terrible. A newcomer at the time, Chris had been slowly making his way up the ranks, still tormented with his family's absence and missing Australia. He had faced Frederick in a game in Monaco, and after losing - Frederick was an experienced player - had walked out of court only to hear his rival making fun of his origins to the boy who served the balls. Chris had seen red and hadn't forgiven him ever since, their future encounters only solidifying Frederick's bad manners and disrespectful attitude. Of course none of them had ever made an effort to hide it, so in a short while, their mutual dislike for each other was already a worldwide known fact. 

And then there was Tom. He had heard the rumors and seen them together once, when he hadn't the faintest idea of who Tom was. The only thing he knew about the curly haired beauty was that he came from a rich family and was much too engrossed in all things tennis. Dating the players only seemed natural, Tom had the looks, the grace and the opportunity. 

Chris didn't know what had transpired between Frederick and Tom, the whole history was too shady. Of all people, Chris' manager knew about it, had even offered to tell him when he and Tom were already a thing, but Chris had kindly declined the offer. If Tom felt like telling him, Chris would listen, but he wouldn't ask others. And Tom never made the effort to tell him, so Chris never asked.  
(https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRxqFQoTCPGZ7p7boscCFYMLkAodet8LQA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ewtc.com%2FDubai%2FDubai-Beach%2FHotel%2FAnantara-Dubai-The-Palm-Resort-Spa.html&ei=TMzKVfHDI4OXwAT6vq-ABA&bvm=bv.99804247,d.Y2I&psig=AFQjCNFrx7ZWzA_WY1Mt6zzPUy2TyqrICw&ust=1439439968908879) 

Tom's bare feet slapped against the floor as he came back, white, tiny shorts hanging low on his hips, body thin and slender, his torso toned and supple with all that yoga he practiced. Chris smirked, and didn't even pretend not to be staring when his boyfriend made his way to him, sunglasses perched atop his nose, a bottle of sunscreen in hand. "Can you get my back, please, love?" He asked, stretching languidly beside Chris, belly down. 

Chris promptly sat to do as asked, squeezing the white cream onto his palm before massaging it all the way down the expanse of Tom's back, his boyfriend sighing, ribcage humming under Chris' hands. His phone vibrated where it stood above the small table and Chris took a glance at it before cleaning his hands with a soft towel folded nearby. 

Tom turned his head to watch as Chris walked away, talking on the phone. He waited for him to finish but when Chris laughed and went back to the room Tom gave up, going to lie beneath the sun, applying more sunscreen on his face. 

As his skin tanned Tom could hear Chris' muffled talk from the room, inching his sunglasses down to snoop a look through the sliding doors. Chris was smiling while speaking, looking more animated than he had in a while. Weird. Perhaps Frederick hadn't won the match after all. 

Smiling and sipping some water from a bottle, Tom properly tanned himself, startling when Chris came running from the room, coming to a stop beside him and blocking the sun. "Guess what?" His boyfriend asked excitedly, hands on his hips as he beamed and waited for Tom to make his guess. 

"Hm, Frederick lost?" 

Chris' smile fell. "No, no, I don't know yet." 

"Oh." 

Chris licked his lips before grinning. "My family is coming." 

Right, that was a surprise. Tom sat up, mouth hanging open comically. "Oh, darling. That is- That is wonderful." he forced himself to say. Tom had never met Chris' family and the thought of doing so had always left him a little unnerved. It seemed too intimate, too serious, and though they were in a serious relationship meeting the parents made Tom uneasy. "Are they coming to the game?" he asked while Chris laughed in contentment. 

"Yes," Chris nodded, "And they'll stay here too. Liam made reservations for all of them," Chris sat on the recliner beside Tom, kissing his cheek loudly in a bout of happiness, as if Tom himself had just delivered the good news. "Mom, dad, Liam, Luke, his wife and kids. And you." Chris whispered the last part, eyes shining with joy. "It'll be brilliant." 

Tom gave a short laugh. "Of course." They were going to be interrupted by Chris' family, and not just his mother and father as Tom had thought but a great part of his family. Ugh, why didn't his grandparents tag along too? 

Chris was brimming with joy, running back to the room with quick words on how he was calling the reception and his manager and they had a week before the championship's final still, they could arrange to do all sort of things together. 

Tom sighed, falling back against the recliner. Great. People. He wasn't sad, just a little bit disappointed. Tom wanted Chris all to himself and now when they were finally here by themselves, in Dubai, where Tom would lay sprawled to tan for only Chris to see, where they would dine together and visit the city, Chris' family decided to come. Right, it was the final, they also wanted to be there to watch the match and their brother/son/uncle/brother-in-law possibly being consecrated world champion, but this was _their trip. Tom had always envisioned it as some sort of honeymoon and now Chris' family was coming over and Tom would be left in second plan. It wouldn't be Tom and Chris in Dubai, it'd be Chris and his family feat. boyfriend in Dubai. And Tom'd have to be _agreeable._ Oh god, one of the brothers had kids. Tom hated kids. Would they pull his hair and throw toys at him and cry too loudly all the time? _

_Chris spent the rest of the day making phone calls, not caring less if Tom completely roasted under the sun. Mood sapped, Tom had even taken his shorts off so his bottom wouldn't be stark pale against the rest of his tanned skin, lifting his head with a smart grin and looking for Chris' eyes on him but no, his boyfriend was too occupied with his family coming over and hadn't even paid attention to Tom's bare ass under the sun. Impossible. Chris never missed an opportunity to ogle his ass. Humphing, Tom crossed his arms and looked away, hiding under the shade when the heat became unbearable._

_Even though he had planned to stay outside for as long as his stubbornness lasted, Tom had to eat._

_Chris asked for lunch to be delivered in their room, and they ate at the table outside as his boyfriend kept smiling and typing on his phone. Tom rolled his eyes, pausing to take a sip of his drink. "When are they arriving?" he asked just to break the silence._

_Chris hummed in question, looking up at him. "Oh, tomorrow, I think. The plane is leaving today."_

_Tom nodded. They could enjoy the rest of the today together then._

_~*~_

_But after lunch the flight's weariness got to him and before he knew it, Tom was already tossed on the big double bed, blinking to fight off the involuntary pull of his eyelids. Chris joined him not too late after, the cool air of the air conditioning blessedly fanning their bodies._

_"Want me to set an alarm, babe?" Chris asked, wrapping Tom up in his arms and kissing his forehead._

_Tom nodded against his shoulder, curling a hand around his boyfriend's back as he settled more comfortably to sleep. Chris hummed in response, turning to the bedside table to adjust the time they wanted to wake up to. Tom's mind was already fogging with sleep, just waiting for Chris to come back to be able to sleep. But instead of lying back down, Chris sat up on the edge of the bed, head bent as he paid attention to something on his lap._

_"Chris?" Tom blinked, rustling the sheets to move closer. "Come to bed." He ran a hand over his boyfriend's back soothingly, feeling his muscles hard with tension. "What is it?"_

_Instead of replying, Chris turned to present him his cell phone's screen. Tom supported himself on his elbows and read the news blearily: British tennis player to play the final at Dubai against Australian star._

_"Oh," Tom mumbled, sitting straighter and cupping the device to read the rest of the news. He gulped, keeping a nonchalant expression. It said nothing they hadn't more or less expected, Frederick had won his game and was headed to Dubai, where he would face Chris at the final for the championship title. Tickets were already sold out and the match would be broadcasted by a handful of channels. Tom refrained from reading the comments and passed the device back to Chris._

_He studied Chris' face, but his boyfriend didn't seem all too fazed with the news; in a way, they both knew it was bound to happen._

_~*~_

_They enjoyed the rest of the day as much as they could, dining at a local restaurant that had a full view of the city, a small candle lighted between them, flame flickering with the breeze. Chris held Tom's hand atop the table and they shared a typical dessert before taking a short walk around the city._

_Liam had messaged Chris earlier before their family had boarded the plane, so it was settled they would arrive before midday. The reminder of his family's arrival had Chris smiling, "You'll love them, I'm sure." he said, squeezing Tom's hand._

_Tom smiled. He was certain Chris' family members were as nice as him, but was a little scared of their judgment of _him._ Tom knew he wasn't the most likeable of people, and it was weird to realize that also contributed to his uneasiness for having Chris' family so close to them; Tom was very altruistic, not giving a fuck about what other people thought of him or of his life choices or of the people he chose to have a relationship with. But when it came to meeting Chris' siblings, his self-consciousness increased tenfold. He was nervous. _

_They took quick showers upon arriving back at the hotel, Tom crawling in bed next to Chris, who had the television on, watching it with a low brow as words in Arabian kept being spilled by a woman in what appeared to be a news channel. Tom rested his head back against Chris' chest and mirrored his confused look at the television. "What is she saying?" he whispered._

_"I have no idea." Chris grunted._

_Tom chuckled, and in the next minute the woman swiveled in her chair, turning to a man beside her, the camera changing angles to frame them both. She asked him something and the man replied excitedly. The screen was then taken by different shots of a tennis match as the man continued speaking and explaining._

_"Is that Frederick?" Tom asked, though in the next second Frederick's face filled the screen, scrunched up as he raised a fist in victory._

_They were images from the semifinal which they hadn't got to watch. "Look, it's you!" Tom called, and surely, shots from Chris' game in Italy appeared. Chris said nothing, and the camera went back to the woman and the man behind the counter. They talked about something else but Tom wasn't paying attention anymore, eyeing Chris carefully._

_"Well," he tried, "everyone seems really excited with the match."_

_Chris smirked. "Yes." And after switching the TV off with the remote controller, folded an arm around Tom's shoulders, "I have to watch the complete game though, I've forgotten most of his tactics."_

_"I'm sure you'll do fine."_

_Chris laughed, chest shaking. "You're very optimistic, sweetheart."_

_"I'm not," Tom shrugged. He was aware of Chris' capacity and talent, he had everything it took to be a champion. "I'm just being realistic. Trust me, Frederick is out of shape." He continued, smiling softly and welcoming Chris as he turned in his arms, their legs twining beneath the sheets._

_"It always looks like he's out of shape until he plays against me." Tom laughed in response, "I think his anger for me having stolen you from him fuels his disposition, I don't know." Chris shrugged. "He always turns a game into a fight for you."_

_Tom regained his breath, taking a moment to watch Chris' face before replying, "Well, he can't possibly have me." Chris grinned, flicking his eyes to Tom and leaning in for a kiss. Tom accepted his lips greedily, the familiar shape of them pressing against his own. The kiss was lazy but no less enjoyable, Chris' tongue swiping against the roof of his mouth. "You know," Tom mumbled, palms sliding down Chris' shoulders and back while Chris mouthed at his neck, "You've got to win," he sighed, turning to lie on his back as Chris' weight settled above him, legs spreading to accommodate his body. "Or else Stella will get all smug on me," he hissed, Chris tugging on his earlobe with his teeth, a hand coming in between their bodies to fell Tom's slowly rising cock through the material of his sweatpants. "And I can't stand her," Tom bit his bottom lip, arching his back when Chris' fist enveloped him beneath his underwear._

_Chris huffed, the air between them growing hotter by the second. Chris threw the sheets aside, bending to hug Tom's waist and descend kisses on his chest. "I can't stand her either," Chris hummed, Tom's fingers burying into his hair to secure his head. With every kiss, the skin was left moist in Chris' wake, the cold air brushing it and making Tom shiver, the feeling empowered by Chris' hesitant strokes on his cock, making Tom curl his toes in ecstasy, head thrown back._

_"Chris-" he breathed, a hiccup breaking his voice._

_"Yes, babe."_

_But Tom couldn't remember what he was about to say. Only Chris' lips were important, and the movement of them as they descended past his chest, fingers letting go of Tom's hardness to roll his balls, sliding further down and prodding at his entrance. "Yes..." Tom hissed, spreading his legs wider to give Chris more room for his ministrations._

_"You eager, darling?" Chris purred against his navel, plugging a wet tongue inside and making Tom wriggle._

_Tom giggled, raising his legs so Chris' curious fingers could feel around the rim of his hole better. "Yes!" he pulled on Chris' hair, ignoring his boyfriend's grunt as he pushed him down his body. Tom had always been urgent and earnest when it came to sex, a fact he hadn't bothered to hide from Chris since the very first minute they relationship had started. Initially, he exaggerated on some of it just to make Chris stay, but it had always been a plastic effort because Tom enjoyed sex as much as he made it look like. Chris loved this about him too, or so he had said countless times, panting in bliss and even telling Tom he'd make a terrific dominatrix someday. Tom pretended not to be partially flattered, and pretended he hadn't liked the idea._

_"Tell me what you want, baby," Chris murmured, voice muffled by Tom's hipbone, where he had his face pressed against thanks to Tom's forceful grip on his hair._

_"Your tongue," Tom breathed, smiling to himself, already imagining the feeling, chills breaking out on his skin. "I want your dirty tongue in me, you sucker."_

_Chris chuckled. He loved when Tom talked dirty to him. "Here?" he asked, kissing the curve of Tom's cock, red and throbbing under his lips._

_Tom whined, kicking him with his heel. "No," he groaned, shoving Chris' shoulders down and turning to support himself on his hands and knees on the mattress, angling his hips up and laying his head back down on the pillow. Tom looked back at Chris over his shoulder, wriggling his ass in the air in front of Chris' face, "In my fucking hole," he breathed, clutching the pillowcase with a hand, the corner of his lip quirking up in a lazy and luscious smirk._

_Chris groaned, not wasting any time and clasping his hands on Tom's hips to secure him in place, burying his face in his cheeks. "Look at this pretty ass of yours," he mumbled, biting one of Tom's buttock, Tom yelping. Chris licked his lips predatorily, holding Tom's cheeks apart._

_Tom could feel Chris' hot breath fanning his hole, a part of himself feeling pleasurably and timidly exposed, which brought a faint blush to his cheeks. But Chris bit the inner thigh instead, what he knew was a very sensitive part of Tom's._

_"Ouch, _Chris-_!" Tom whimpered, impatient. Chris gave a short mischievous laugh, and Tom opened his mouth to reproach him when he felt moist lips sealing themselves above the rim of his hole. Tom moaned, loudly, pushing his backside further into Chris' mouth, dragging the sheets in his fists. _

_"Shit, baby, hold on," Chris said, gripping Tom's cheeks tighter._

_"I can't," Tom breathed, mouth opening in bliss as Chris' tongue traced the circle of his hole before pushing in tentatively, lapping at the tiny pucker, moistening it with his saliva. "I can't- help it." Tom felt his cock twitch, and longed for some reprieve there. "Chris," he called, as Chris kept swirling his tongue inside him. He got a hold of one of Chris' hands and slid it towards his perineum._

_Chris got the drift easily, moaning against his backside, sending vibrations through Tom's body. He massaged the skin there, loving Tom's answering whimpers, finally cupping his balls and following the red curve of Tom's cock._

_Tom felt as Chris let go of his hole, peering between his legs to see Chris' hand enveloping his dick and he sighed. Chris went back to kissing his wet hole, the sound languid and erotic as he began stroking Tom's length in time. "Faster, Chris..." he whined, Chris' thumb tracing the moist crown that peeked from his foreskin. It was a double stimulation, Chris' hand on his cock and Chris' tongue in his ass._

_Chris attended to his request, and Tom felt his insides bubbling, his lower belly tightening. The pillowcase underneath his forehead was wet with his sweat and Tom panted, biting his lip, surging up against Chris' mouth and down to fuck his fist. He was almost, almost there when Chris suddenly let go of his cock._

_"What the fu-" Tom groaned, but Chris quickly turned Tom on his back, manhandling him with ease._

_Like Tom, Chris was panting, his mouth wet and red, his chin glistening with saliva. His torso was all defined and tanned and Tom couldn't avoid thinking that he looked like those gladiators from the movies, brows heavy and eyes dark, his cock engorged and almost purple. Tom's eyelids dropped with the sight, eyeing Chris through a slit. He spread his legs almost unconsciously, grabbing Chris' shoulders as Chris crawled over to him, settling between his legs, cock brushing Tom's thigh._

_"You want to fuck me, love? Hn?" Tom whispered, kissing the side of Chris' face lovingly._

_Chris groaned, biting his earlobe. Tom giggled, licking a stripe down to Chris' shoulder and letting out a warm gasp against it, feeling Chris' skin pebbling with goosebumps. "You little bastard-" Chris purred, but Tom shushed him with a hand to his lips. "Go grab the lube and condom."_

_Chris was quick to stand up to do as told, retrieving the new tube of lube and the box of condoms they had bought especially for the trip. He threw them at the bed beside Tom's body, biting his lip with a predatory gaze as he crawled on the mattress, grabbing Tom's ankles and spreading his legs wider. Tom raised an eyebrow at him, but his cock was throbbing too much to endure any more teasing. Tom held the tube, popping the lid and squeezing some onto his hand._

_"Is this," he paused, sniffing at the contents on his hand while Chris methodically kissed his hipbone and thigh. "Vanilla?"_

_Chris only hummed wetly on his skin, and Tom slicked his own fingers, sliding his hand down between their bodies to enter a first finger to his hole. He sighed, positioning himself better so his wrist wouldn't be in such a weird angle. Chris sat back on his heels to watch and Tom took a quick look at the lube's specifications before letting it hit the mattress with a sly grin._

_"You bought flavored lube, didn't you?" he asked, preparing to enter his middle finger alongside the first._

_Chris chuckled, gripping Tom's knees apart to guarantee himself a nice view of what he was going on down there. "You found me out, sweetheart."_

_Tom kicked at his chest lightly, scissoring himself open with a hiss he couldn't hold back. "You could've-" Sigh, more pressure. "Opened me before and then- oh fuck... and then eaten me out."_

_"Go deeper, baby," Chris was goading, slickening his own fingers with some of the lube and sliding one in alongside Tom, who under a sweaty forehead and hooded eyes, looked down to watch. "I can eat you with the lube later. Like this, right-" Chris murmured, as desperate as Tom, guiding his fingers and setting the pace._

_They found that small place that massaged Tom's prostate right on and the Brit saw stars, letting out a long and agonizing moan with his head thrown back. "God, Chris- I'm good, I'm good, I'm ready, come on." He pleaded, hurrying their fingers out of his passage._

_Chris ripped the condom open, body already leaning down between Tom's legs, reaching out to roll it over his own cock, wet at the slit with the beads of precum he had let out while watching Tom. Meanwhile, Tom spread the lube on his palm, whimpering and looking down to wrap his hand around Chris' latex covered cock, slickening it with fast strokes and delighting on Chris' chest-rumbling groans._

_"Yes, like that-" Tom moaned, holding Chris' hips with both hands as Chris aligned the lower half of his body to Tom's entrance, the head poking in with a roll of his hips. As always, it met some resistance, but as Tom's walls spread prettily to make room for it, Chris expertly thrust himself in further until he was halfway inside, fisting the sheets beside Tom's belly and groaning lengthly, eyes shut._

_His impulse was to thrust in the whole way, and seeing as Tom didn't look averse to idea, rather writhing on the sheets, that was exactly what Chris did._

_"Fuck, yes!" Tom yelled, and Chris smirked impossibly. His boyfriend fisted Chris' hair, bringing their heads closer, their blown pupils kept in an eyelock as Chris began moving, Tom's thin chest heaving as he let out feeble gasps of pleasure, his heels connected to Chris' small back, pulling him closer._

_Tom clasped his nails on Chris' back, relishing the way he hissed and rammed in with renewed vigor. "Chris!" Tom gasped, "Faster..." Chris attended to his wish, winding his arms around Tom's ribcage for support, their clammy skin meeting with every thrust, Tom's cock rubbing against Chris' stomach._

_"Yeah?" Chris teased, licking the side of Tom's ear as he writhed beneath him. Tom squeezed around him in response and Chris groaned, biting his lower lip and watching as Tom grinned naughtily._

_Chris sped up his thrusts, delighted with Tom's vocal support, slamming himself down on Chris' cock everytime Chris retreated. There was nothing Chris loved more than fucking Tom, seeing his pretty curls bouncing, the pinch between his eyebrows, his breathy, high-pitched moans, mouth parted to draw more air in; all that pale line of his body reduced to that writhing thing that wouldn't rest until Chris' cock was lodged deep inside him._

_Chris grasped one of his buttocks with perhaps more force than he had intended and Tom's eyes immediately flew open, falling on him and letting out a deliberate, languid gasp. "You liked that, baby?" Chris bit his collarbone, and Tom nodded. "Again," he asked, and Chris brought his hand to his ass once more, landing a nice slap that made Tom moan out loud and curl his toes in, all the while Chris continued thrusting with more and more force._

_Tom grasped the back of Chris' head, bringing Chris' mouth closer for an open kiss, moaning into the twist of their tongues. Chris reduced his pace to dedicate more to the kiss, his thrusts becoming deeper and longer, reaching that spot into Tom that made him grit his teeth and whimper, almost biting Chris' tongue in the process._

_Tom took Chris' wrist, directing his hand towards his red, rigid cock. Chris stroked his length in time with his thrusts, thumb working the crown and teasing the slit that let out drops and drops of pearly white precum. They broke the kiss as Chris concentrated on quickening his thrusts, groaning and gripping the side of Tom's body, muscles jumping as his cock dragged against Tom's walls, imagining not for the first time what it'd feel like to fuck Tom without a condom, the slickness and heat of him._

_"Chris, Chris... I'm close." Tom breathed, eyes shut and mouth twisting as Chris gave a couple of harder thrusts._

_"Go on, baby." Chris said, sweat beading on his forehead. "Go on, come for me." He loved how Tom changed when he was about to come, how affectionately he began caressing Chris' face, undulating his hips, cheeks flushed as his body coiled, his balls tightening in advance, legs locking around Chris' hips to keep them close and bury Chris deeper, like his climax could only be reached if all of him was completely impaled on Chris' cock._

_Tom's toes curled, spurting his come all over his chest and abdomen, clenching around Chris, who fought to continue thrusting and growled. Chris watched Tom come undone, the sweet part of his lips and the sound that broke free from his throat._

_Legs turning to jelly, Tom felt as Chris readjusted the hold on his knees and legs, the hard length of his cock slipping in and out of Tom insistently as Tom continued to see starts, his flacid cock coming to rest between their bodies, sensitive. He met every one of Chris' thrusts with a whiny breath of his own, his heart bursting with joy and his mind still set on how much he enjoyed being completely fucked, claimed by Chris and his big cock. He wished he could film them, wished every fan could see them together like this, to know that Chris did this to him everyday and that Tom thoroughly enjoyed it, that he was made for this._

_Chris came with a growl, muscles straining and bulging as he filled the condom inside Tom._

_Tom could only pant and watch, tilting his hips to feel the warmth of Chris' come seeping through the latex, running his hands over Chris' shoulders in a sweet caress. "Shh, darling, that's it..." Tom shushed him, Chris letting out puffs of breath and a moan in the back of his throat as his come continued shooting and he collapsed above Tom._

_They kissed with Chris still inside him, Tom's arms wrapped around Chris' neck as their mouths twisted lazily. Chris pulled out and Tom hissed, eyeing as his boyfriend tied the end of the condom and rose on a knee to throw it in the bin._

_Tom's eyes drooped, a hand curled over his sticky belly; he could only feel as Chris cleansed him with a wet towel, lifting one of his legs and laying a kiss next to his hole when he was done. Tom whimpered, drowsy with satisfaction, pulling Chris to him and tightening his limbs around his body. Tomorrow Chris' family would come, and the reminding of that made Tom shiver._

_~*~_

_When Tom woke, Chris wasn't in the room. Groaning, he turned on the bed, wondering what time it was. The last thing he wanted was to get up naked with a body covered in hickeys to find Chris' family at the other side of the door._

_Sighing, Tom made himself take a shower, hearing through the bathroom walls as Chris entered the room. Freshly showered, Tom exited, water dripping from his curls. "Hey," he said, putting on some clothes._

_"Hey, baby, good morning," Chris said, approaching and cupping his elbow to kiss his lips. He smelt good, and he looked good too, Tom noticed with an expert eye._

_"Have you had breakfast?" Tom asked, rearranging his toiletries inside his luggage._

_"Yes, but I can accompany you on yours." Chris walked to watch the pool outside their room. "Their plane has already landed but until getting their things and calling a cab, they'll arrive a little after your breakfast."_

_Tom sighed, nodding quietly. He applied sunscreen on his face, turning to check his reflexion one last time before turning to Chris, who stood in front of the sliding doors, hands in his pockets. "Let's go?"_

_Tom should've known better than to have Chris accompanying him down to the common dining room, because a group of people approached him for pictures while Tom leisurely chewed on his plate of fruits. Chris attended to all of them with a sympathetic smile, waving the last one goodbye before watching Tom from the other side of the table. "Are you sure you don't want to eat anything else?" He said, glancing at Tom's plate._

_Tom shook his head. "Won't you need some coffee?" Chris insisted._

_"I like water." Tom replied, simply, taking a sip of his glass overflowing with ice cubes._

_Chris looked amused, eyebrows shooting up, but he didn't say anything else. The truth was that Tom was nervous, he didn't feel like eating much that could weigh too heavily on his stomach or upset it. Also, the Italy incident was still too fresh on his mind, the last thing he needed was to run to the bathrooms all the time with Chris' family there, knowing._

_They took the elevator back to their room, and Liam contacted Chris, they were already arriving at the hotel._

_Tom locked himself in the bathroom, taking in deep breaths and trying to make nothing out of it. It was just Chris' stupid family, not the Pope, dammit._

_That shirt didn't look nice on him, so Tom put on a dress shirt, though Chris watched him weirdly and it made him sweat. "What?" He asked, suddenly snappy the way he used to get when he knew Chris was holding back a smile at his antics._

_Chris grinned, raising both palms to show he meant no harm. "Nothing."_

_Chris' cell phone rang, and Tom nervously got himself together. "They're downstairs, checking up." He said, unhelpfully, taking Tom's hand to lead him out the door._

_"Wait," Tom insisted, adjusting his hair. Chris patiently waited by the door as he finished, pressing his lips together to hide his smile, idly eyeing the tip of his shoe. Tom finally finished and they took the elevator, which was fortunately empty, just a soft song playing inside._

_Tom swallowed, flattening his collar. "How do I look?" He asked, glancing up at Chris._

_"You look lovely." Chris winked, and Tom flushed, putting his hands inside his pockets but then folding them in front of his lap. The elevator pinged when they arrived at the hall, and Tom quickly took Chris' hand in his, chin held high as the doors opened and they stepped outside. Chris' family was a blur of people in front of the reception desk. Tom's feet almost didn't work when Chris gave the first step towards them, but he sighed calmly, running a hand over his head as they approached._

_"Christopher!" His mother was the first to spot them, her small eyes twinkling, cheeks rosy. From them on, it seemed all the Hemsworth faces turned to them, letting out delighted pips when seeing Chris. A tall guy hugged him and Tom's eyes almost rounded when he saw how similar he was to Chris._

_For a minute Tom just stood there, smiling robotically as Chris was hugged and kissed and patted on the back by seemingly all of his family members, the hall dissolving into a quiet chit chat. None of them seemed to notice him for a while until the conversation dropped unceremoniously, and all eyes turned to him. Chris, wearing a giant smile, finally came to attend to him, wrapping an arm around his waist that made Tom blush and glance at the floor._

_"Mom, dad, guys, this is Tom, my boyfriend." Chris introduced, followed by a low 'oh'._

_"Hello, darling!" Chris' mom was the first to step up, widening her arms to engulf Tom in a hug. Tom turned wide eyes to Chris, who just threw his head back and laughed as his mother continued to pet him. "Chris's said the most wonderful things about you. Oh, you look so handsome!" She said, swatting his arm playfully._

_Tom smiled. "Thank you, er, nice to meet you, ma'am."_

_She laughed, giving more space to her husband to step in and shake Tom's hand in which was possibly one of the most awkward situations Tom has ever been in. Liam was next, followed by his brother, Luke and Sam, Luke's wife, while Chris' small nieces eyed him suspiciously from their perch on their parents' arms._

_Tom's cheeks hurt from smiling politely for too long and for a moment they all watched him, only breaking out of their daze when one of the kids spit its pacifier loudly on the floor. Tom bent to retrieve it for them and Sam smiled to him._

_Hands on his hips, Tom laughed when necessary, standing next to Chris and not quite knowing what to say or do when his family had finally gotten their keys. They all walked to the elevator, Chris pressing the button and draping an arm around Tom's waist. It was clear they wouldn't all fit inside with their luggage in a single lift, and Tom stepped to the side to give way to Chris' mom._

_"Oh, you're so polite, darling." She said, patting Tom's arm. Her smile was sincere and the way she talked to him was so earnest that Tom wasn't sure what to do with it. He hadn't expected to be treated that way._

_"It's nothing, ma'am."_

_Chris' mother laughed, looking to her husband as if to make sure he had heard it before asking Tom to just call her Leonie._

_Chris helped his parents load their baggage inside the elevator, Luke and his family following as the machine closed its doors and took them to their floor. Tom was left breathing quickly beside Chris, taking in the closed doors and wondering what the hell had just happened, it had all been so fast and uncoordinated, he felt lightheaded and airy. Liam still stood beside them, and Tom was only reminded of his presence when Chris turned to talk to him._

_Tom gulped, gaze on the floor and burrowing closer to Chris' side. "Tom?" Chris asked him, and Tom startled, looking up to find both brothers watching him. They had probably asked him something._

_"Oh, yes. What was it?"_

_"I asked if you're feeling better," Liam said, "We didn't see you at Chris' last match on the TV back home; we were all very worried," he shot Chris a quick look. "But Chris said you were ill."_

_"Oh!" Tom blushed, laughing nervously. "Oh, yes. I was- uhm, I wasn't feeling well."_

_Liam nodded, turning to Chris as if looking for his brother's confirmation of the fact. There were a few seconds of silence before Chris cleared his throat, "So, what room did you get?" he asked, and Liam grimaced._

_"One in the third floor, I'll share with mom and dad." Liam didn't look too happy with that. "And you?"_

_"We got the one in the roof," Chris said, pointing vaguely skywards._

_Liam whistled. "Nice, I'll go take a dip in that pool later."_

_They took the elevator next, Tom leaning against the wall while Chris and his brother talked. But not too long after, Liam reached his floor and departed with a few words, arranging for all of them to meet for lunch and then visit the city. With the doors closed, Tom breathed in a little more at peace, grinning when Chris came up to him, both hands beside his head as he dipped to kiss the corner of his mouth._

_"They're very nice," Tom said, because it felt like he needed to say something._

_Chris smiled, "I told you you'd love then."_

__Love is a strong word,_ Tom thought, but not sincerely. Chris' family really looked like true, humble and happy people. Tom wished he could be a bit more like them. _

_The elevator pinged when arriving at their floor, and he and Chris exited hand-in-hand, Tom not stifling a laugh when Chris ducked to whisper something funny and teasing on his ear. Tom caught movement from the corner of his eye, and involuntarily took a look at his right only to almost stumble, smile slipping off. A few meters away from them, Frederick and Stella stood, both watching Chris and Tom with serious, hard faces. Frederick promptly looked away with a moue when their eyes met, busying himself with his keycard while Stella flicked her blond hair aside, pretending not to be looking at Chris._

_Tom instantly felt like a stone had slipped inside his shoe, turning his head away and trying to make nothing out of it. He took a quick glance at Chris, his boyfriend also having seen them, face blank and placid. A tension fell around them, and as Chris fished the keycard out of his pocket, Tom listened to the sound of trunks being carried inside the room at the far end of the hallway, Stella's high-pitched voice saying something muffled as Frederick responded with a grunt. But Chris quickly opened their door and they slipped inside, Tom walking ahead to stop at the center of the room, crossing his arms and staring intently at the pool outside. He heard as Chris closed the door and came to a stop behind him._

_"Did you know they were also staying at our hotel?" Tom asked, his voice steady. He felt Chris' long arms wrapping around his waist from behind, the tip of his chin coming to a rest on Tom's shoulder._

_"My manager told me, yes."_

_Tom sighed. So much for peace. With so many hotels around the city of course they had come to the same one he and Chris were in! With Chris' family here too. It made Tom furious, but he inhaled deeply and sagged against Chris' chest._

_"I doesn't mean we'll see them everyday," Chris tries, his voice soft beside Tom's neck._

_"Partially. We just might cross paths with them out of plain bad luck," Tom replies with a huff before another thought comes to his mind. "Wait, is he training here too?" He can feel Chris shrugging. "Because you can't train in the same place as him, he'll watch you, and- and steal your tactics."_

_Chris laughs, and Tom sometimes hates when he does that, starts laughing immediately after he said something. "Calm down, sweetheart, it's a private court, it's not-" Chris sighs, turning Tom's slightly reluctant body in his grip. "Let's not worry about that, okay?" His boyfriend says, staring at Tom with that calm, acquiescing look of his._

_"It's a competition, Chris," Tom mumbles, a little more assuaged when Chris soothes him, resting his head on Chris' shoulder for comfort. "We're not here to have fun, I mean, we are," Chris looks down at him and Tom meets his gaze, licking his lips and flattening the collar of Chris' shirt absentmindedly. "But I want you to win."_

_"Why, Tom?" Chris asks after what feels like a whole minute in silence. "Why is it so important to you that I win?"_

_Tom understands the look Chris gives him, had perhaps faced it once or twice before: the suspicion. But Tom wants nothing more than the best to happen to Chris, regardless of how it's viewed by others. He doesn't wish to stick to Chris' side because he's handsome and famous and victorious, those could've been part of his motivations at first, but not now. "It's not important," Tom shakes his head, hoping Chris is reading his eyes. "But you deserve it. You're good at what you do, very good, and-" Tom sighs, shoulders dropping. "I think it's only because this is Frederick," Tom licks his lips. "That's why it makes me so antsy."_

_Chris lifts his eyebrows, but doesn't put any distance between him and Tom. "So you just need him to lose?" He smirks, "I can do that."_

_Tom laughs, squeezing Chris' chest to his. Chris smells good, of warmth and clean clothes, of gentle hands and calming smiles. It's not the first time Tom has noticed it, but somehow it seems this is the first time those observations are hitting home: he's falling in love._

_Chris nuzzles his hair, kisses his head, and Tom smiles. He can feel Chris' chest expanding, and knows he's about to ask something he's been keeping to himself. "Why does he bother you? Frederick, I mean."_

_Tom shakes his head. He doesn't like discussing Frederick. Not because he's ashamed of their past – though, yeah, maybe a little bit – but mostly because he was uninteresting. They didn't have anything serious, Tom didn't even like him, just went on with it because he was a professional player and Tom was a fan. It seemed unfair that people liked to drag their past affair into their lives now, commenting on how Tom had 'dated' his country's number one player before flirting with Chris as though he was trying all the grapes in the vineyard until the ripest one appeared. Tom didn't give a fuck about them though, but it hurt to know that they could be brainwashing Chris and even Chris' family so think so lowly of him._

_"He was an asshole," Tom says, "the kind you can tell apart on your first conversation. I thought it was sexy for some insane reason. But then it became tiresome. He loved himself too much to share with other people." Tom can't see Chris' face from where he still has his pressed on his shoulder, but Chris waits patiently for him to continue, his even breathing delating the attention he was paying on Tom's words. "My family is old, rich, I have a name out there. He was indulging _himself_ by going out with me, and maybe I was doing the same to him. It was all very plastic. And in the end I couldn't stand him because he was a reflex of me. I blamed him for doing all the wrong things I was doing myself. Call me hypocritical." _

_Chris says nothing for a moment, only spanning his hand on Tom's back. It unnerves Tom. He knows he's as bad as Frederick, and he feels incensed with shame now, just like he had when he'd yelled at Chris back in Italy and Chris had reared back. "But I didn't," he gulps, "I mean, we never went far. We never even kissed," Tom steps back from Chris' embrace. It's important that Chris knows how genuine he's being. "I promise. It was all for the cameras, I liked to be seen with him because I knew people would talk."_

_Chris doesn't look unbelieving in the way Tom thought he was. He has absolutely no expression on, but after a while the corner of his mouth lifts and he gives Tom a proud, almost shy look. "Good," he says, "he doesn't deserve your kisses."_

_Tom gives a watery smile back and remains in place when Chris inches forward to lay a gentle press of lips over his. "But thanks," Chris shrugs, "for being honest with me."_

_"Doesn't it bother you though?" Tom asks. He doesn't know why. He'd promised himself he wouldn't ask Chris that question, mostly because he was afraid of the truth he would listen to. "That I am like this?"_

_Chris considers him for a moment, a moment that has Tom shivering in anticipation of his answer. "I think a lot of things of you, Tom," he answers, "but I never think as badly of you as you do yourself."_

_Tom lets his gaze wander over Chris' face, studying it. Chris is never enigmatic unless he's being truthful._

_"But I don't know what you saw in me," Chris chuckles with a shrug, "because I don't think very highly of myself. So maybe we have that trace in common."_

_Tom chuckles. He hugs Chris to him, feeling his heartbeat against his own chest. He doesn't want to leave, but he can't stand being present if Chris wants to continue talking about these stuff. Already he feels a weight off his shoulders for finally addressing the subject he knew Chris found stingy, but now he wants to rest, no overdose._

_"Okay," Tom clears his throat, "I'll change. Go in the pool. Want to join me?"_

_Chris looks pacific enough, and swipes a thumb over Tom's chin. "Sure. Just give me a minute. I'll invite Liam over, if you don't mind."_

_"Great," Tom nods. He moves to his bag to collect his bathing suit._

_"Tom," Chris calls._

_"Hn?" Tom turns, and his eyelids fall shut immediately when Chris kisses him. It's chaste, just a press of lips, but the soft silence around them, the way Chris' lips feel so gentle over his has Tom's heart tugging. He'd never felt so... loved._

_-_

_"He's some sort of socialite, isn't he?"_

_Liam's comment breaks Chris out of his trance. Liam has come to try their pool as promised. According to him the rest of the family is resting from the flight. Tom is currently sat at the edge of the pool, where he dips his toes in distractedly while fussing with his phone, brow furrowed above his sunglasses._

_Chris shrugs in lieu of an answer. Liam is reclined next to him, having just recently dozed off. They're both watching Tom now, who is out of earshot._

_"I think he is. I saw him in one of those stupid magazines," Liam goes on. "He was at some event of the Queen's."_

_Chris hums. He can remember Tom mentioning something like that a while ago but Chris doesn't make a habit out of knowing his boyfriend's schedule by heart, least of all while training for an upcoming championship, both for lack of time and will._

_"He looks nice," Liam finally states, and Chris quirks an eyebrow at him. "I mean, he looks like a nice guy," he hurries to explain, blushing, "but he looks nice too, oh hell, you know what I mean."_

_Chris laughs, shaking his head. "He _is_ nice, thanks." _

_"I never thought you would settle with someone like him though," Liam shrugs, and earns a questioning look from his brother, "don't get me wrong. I didn't know he was your type. I guess we all thought you'd go for someone less... outstanding. I mean, like the hometown kind of boy."_

_"Right," Chris mumbles, gaze travelling to Tom, who is now twirling a curl with his finger. "We all thought I wouldn't _leave_ our hometown either, so, yeah. Tom is my type."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Chris won the tournament (of course) and during their trip Tom fell in love with him and discovered he wasn't just after Chris' fame (he had serious doubts about his own behavior himself).  
> \- One year later, Chris proposed and of course Tom said yes. Nowadays he lives out of flashing his engagement ring to the cameras whenever he watches Chris' matches.


End file.
